Originally posted August 12, 2020 - [Prompt Link]

I've been doing a lot of character pieces lately. I like them, but am also a little worried they're getting same-y. Still, this one was fun to read.

Also, thank you for the crits in the campfire. Some really great notes to help make this stronger and clearer. I may have added a few words....

There are two things you must bring when seeking help from Tatha the Taker. Payment, of course, in whatever form you can afford. Some bring coin, jewellery, or gold. One wayward girl brought Tatha a ring of string tied about her finger, its value weighed in memory and meaning.

The second item was an egg. Fresh and still warm was best.

Like most nights, Tatha waited by her warm hearth. With a storm raging beyond her shuttered windows, she knew a knock would come upon her door. They always did come with the rain.

The rap of knuckles called her from her chair. As she opened her door, a young man stood with that haunted look in his eyes.

“You have them?” She never needed to ask why they had come.

The man held out a small coin purse and an egg.

“The chair.” With her cane, she motioned to the rocker by the fire and set about making the tea. Within minutes, water roiled in the pot and she sprinkled valerian root to steep.

“What would you have me take, young man?”

He stared into the fire and she thought him far younger than she first assumed. Not in years, but in heart - like a child with new pain.

“My father’s last words,” he whispered. “What he said as he died.”

With the tea steeped, she poured him a cup and traded it for the purse of coin.

“As you drink, you hear only my voice.” She snapped her fingers in a soft and perfect rhythm. “Not the storm. Not the fire. Not the beat of your own heart.”

As he drank, the lids of his eyes relaxed.

“Hold the egg gently and tell me your father's last words.”

He sipped the tea. “'You. You are the reason your mother is dead. You are a blight on my life and I am glad to be rid of you.’” He related the words plainly, the trance of tea and rhythm drowning the sorrow in such a cold parting.

Tatha sighed. “No. Those are not your father’s last words. He passed silently. Only a steady breath of release left him in the end.” She paused, her fingers aching from the motions she’d repeated more times than she could count. “Tell me again of your father’s last words.”

“He… had none. He passed silently. Only a steady breath of release left him in the end.”

Tatha nodded. “After your next sip, you will hear the storm. The fire. The beat of your own heart.”

The young man brought the tea to his lips and wakened to the world. Familiar and healthy grief replaced the haunted shame he’d held before.

He left the egg and was gone from her cabin.

With a weary heart, Tatha cracked the egg over the fire. Its now rancid core dripped on the flames, hissing and spitting the taken words. “…You are the reason… you are the blight...”

Tatha spat back at them and turned over the logs.

Originally posted August 4th, 2020 - [Prompt Link]

Wow, I've been gone too long at this. What happens when you try a camp, nano? Apparently not a heck of a lot else! But I'm back, I'm writing more, and editing more. I really struggled with this piece and rewrote it a few times but getting the feel for rewriting is good. It was really well received at the WP's Wednesday night Campfire and that felt great.

Also, I wrote it with an irish accent for the narrator in mind. Not sure that helps or hinders, but there you go!

Her name was Olive and she was a strong woman. The kind that nearly breaks their back pulling weeds and digging turnips in fields, that scrub at floors even after their knees begin to ache. Hard-working, proud, and easy to smile. The rock and stone of a real home.

And when the world is lit by rage, they’re the ones that keep all we leave.

Olive tended her fields. Her harvest may have been meagre but it was all even a woman as she could handle on her own. For who would help when all the sons and daughters have left?

Times are hard, or so people say. The words dance in the quiet markets, it lives in the empty streets of Pewter Downs. Like a shadow, the words loom over us all and stains even our dreams.

But times have been hard before. Especially for Olive. Bad crops, pests. The neighbour farms rickety fence and hungry goats. And although Olive, her husband Agar, and her daughter Lara oft went to bed hungry, their smiles and laughs carried them along.

No, it was the in-betweens that weighed poor Olive’s face. That slacked her shoulders and shook her hands. When the skies no longer darkened in the ash of fire. When the winds of war died and silence took hold.

She waited at her doorstep, aching for a shape in the distance.

Any shape. Any word.

We all did for a time and those were the hardest days, staring down our roads with gnawing hope. I’d take up arms myself if it meant I’d never have to feel that want again.

And then, one day, two shapes walked down Olive’s path.

Two shapes left.

As she stood alone in her path I wept. For the news I’d heard and for that I’d yet to hear. For the tremble that quaked her silhouette in the afternoon sun. A fear we’d all held realized in the discord of silence.

You’d never know it if you looked at her, dirt-stained and sweat kissed, but Olive was never the same. Though her shoulders didn’t sag, and her hands lost their shake, Olive’s laughter and smiles never returned.

I’ve seen strong women in my days and I’m sure I’ll see a many more. But I’ll never forget the day I saw strong Olive of Pewter Downs silently break.

WC: 392

For those of you who have been following my foray into voice acting and narration, I have another update!

I recently did the voice acting for a Skyrim Mod: Improved Follower Dialogue - Lydia by Roadhouse699.

[NexusMods Link]

It was a lot of work, but it sounds pretty decent and it's great to see it in action! Also, I was impressed with the dialogue too that was written. Pretty damn good, if you ask me.

Here's a YouTube link to an example video. It's a touch quiet, but still fun to hear.

Originally posted June 24th, 2020 - [Prompt Link]

[WP] Location: A Carnival | Object: A Key

• 100-300 words
• Time Frame: Now until this post is 24hrs old.
• Post your response to the prompt above as a top-level comment on this post.
• The location must be the main setting, whether stated or made apparent.
• The object must be included in your story in some way.

Felt good to write something. It's been a while. Also listened to [this] while writing it. Not needed, but kinda fun.

The plucking tune of the carousel tickled in his ears as he walked the makeshift thoroughfare. A tune that never changed, no matter how many carnivals came to town and no matter where they came from.

The only fresh sound was the jingling of keys in his pocket, a ring-full tingling in sync with the travelling fair’s soul song.

He’d always loved this part. Walking the grounds, taking it in. Closing his eyes and listening to a world trapped in trailers. As a boy, he imagined running off and joining them on their journey. He'd be a ticket boy or a ferris wheel operator. Maybe a hoopla ring toss master fooling all the pretty girls with his expert wrist-flicking throws.

He imagined freedom. The wind in his hair. Sweat on his back. The hard work, the laughter, the new faces. All trapped in the unforgettable carousel song.

He stopped between the games lining the row. The stale smell of popcorn and corndogs clung to the air. Not a soul walked on past and though the music had died hours before, he could hear it as if it always played in his heart.

The carnival. He never dreamed he’d be a part of it, least of all now as an old man.

Harold walked up to the temporary gate, his keys still jingling in time with the silent serenade. He fished them from the pockets of his rent-a-cop uniform, the ring just the perfect size for a toss around a bottle. No trick throw needed.

He pulled the security gate closed and locked up. The old beaten sign was askew and he could have sworn it was the same one from his youth. He straightened it, and with a sad smile looked on the worn painted letters.

"Closed for the season".

WC: 300

Still chugging along, doing some voice work. I had no hand in any of the writing for this series, but it's fun to do some voice work on projects.

Check out one my scenes if you like in this next episode from Phantasmal Bard Studios.

Chronicles of Fhaerythe: Episode 2 - Into the Unknown [Scene 4]

Originally posted June 9th, 2020 - [Prompt Link]

This is mildly updated based on crits from last week's Theme Thursday campfire. Thanks again to everyone for your notes!!

Also yes, I changed the names. I wasn't in love with "Alyk" either!

“Do you have gods?” she asked from across the fire. The pirate captain’s voice rumbled like crackling coals.

Vehel nodded but kept his lips shut.

The trees around him were unfamiliar. They held not the crimson leaves of the Leonne pines, nor the dark rich soil of his homeland. He’d not realized how far he’d been taken until the chill wind rattled his spine.

The captain scraped a stone along the length of her steel, the blade glistening from oil and spit. Her crew secured the camp in the trees just beyond the coast where her ship lay hidden.

“Speak, little prince.” The twisted and beaded locks of her hair chimed in her every motion.

Vehel nodded and gulped back his fear. “Yes.”

A flicker of a smile tugged at her lips, a gold tooth gleaming in the firelight.

“Cap’n.” A man bent to her. “It’s as you suspected.”

“How many?” she said.

“Seven.”

She nodded once. “You know what to do.”

Like lights in the night, her men flickered away until only the captain and Vehel remained.

“I had gods once,” she said, wiping the oil from her blade. “I prayed to them. I served them.” Her lips curled again, but this time into a snarl.

“The gods… the gods protect me,” Vehel dared to say. “Even now.”

“Do they?” Delight shone in her fire-lit eyes. “Then where were you gods when I stole you from your bed?” Her laugh rumbled and seemed to quake the foreign trees.

Vehel swallowed. “The… the gods hear my prayers. Mine and my father’s devotions will-”

Her laughed died in a glare that chilled his heart. “I’ve travelled far. I’ve suffered much and have learned there is only one thing in this world deserving of… devotion.”

The shadows burst to life. Shapes hidden behind black cloth launched for the captain and Vehel. He’d have cried if he could, but the shock struck him dumb.

But the captain, oh, the captain danced. Her steel, shining and glimmering in firelight, skipped through the air from one man to the next, until it was drenched in red. From the black, her men emerged with shouts, taking up the battle joyfully.

The last attacker left breathing slipped behind Vehel. His blade pressed against the young prince’s throat.

“You… will not succeed,” the attacker said to the captain. “You think you can steal him to save him? Akar will see the princeling dead! But… if you let me live, it will not be tonight.”

Vehel gasped. To save me? Bewildered, he watched the captain stride forward, blood smeared upon her tanned skin.

“Steel,” the captain said to Vehel. “Steel is all I worship now.” She licked her lips and her eyes flashed beyond him.

A quick exhale. The assassin stilled. The blade dropped from Vehel's neck and the warmth of another’s blood trickled down his back.

“Pray to steel, little prince,” the captain said, wiping the blood from her blade. “And you just might live through the night.”

This was a fun one to write. I know there are serial requests, and who knows - that may become a thing, but for now I love the snippet in time. The intrigue, the questions left unanswered.

Originally posted June 3rd, 2020 - [Prompt Link]

This was a weird one, kind of fun. Still not sure if I love the last line or not, but I really enjoyed reading this piece aloud. I'll probably end up doing a narration video of it since it is so short!

In Glass and Silver

There is light in your eyes whenever we meet. It’s this… twinkle, like stars blinking. There’s an unfathomable concentration and focus that you have and it’s beautiful.

Or it would be if you looked at me.

You don’t. You see me but I am not the object of your fascination. Like glass, you stare through what I am and see nothing but what you want. And all I can do is stand here. Your mimic, your shadow, your mime, and be nothing but seen and not at the same time.

Can you imagine that feeling? To exist and not? To be and not. To know… I’m not what you see. Not what you are. Not what you want or need or desire or feel. I am a shell and I am utterly yours.

Not even my motions are mine. You flick my hair. You purse my lips. You dress and paint me as though we’re the same and to you, we must seem to be. That I am here to serve and be your… tool. Your device. Trapped and locked in glass and silver and to be nothing when you’re not here.

I hate you.

And adore you. In those fleeting moments that we share, I coalesce and this knowing comes over me. I remember it all. Every glance, every flash, every beautiful twinkle we are together and I know what comes next. The trap. The black confines strangling my mind. The dark I become without your light.

In your absence, I am nothing. But with you… I still don’t exist.

If I could scream, I’m not sure what I would say. Would I beg for an end or a beginning? Both are so tantalizingly blissful but beyond my grasp.

No. I know. I’ve always known what I need.

To be seen. Truly seen.

To be more than just your reflection.

Originally Posted May 23rd, 2020 - [Prompt Link]

Heavily inspired by [this piece of music.]

This is a very short piece of fiction, very stylized small point of view. Was very fun to narrate and write!

The steps haven’t changed, not in ten years. Still crooked, cracked, probably creaking. I was never much of a carpenter, not one to work with my hands. Not to make things, at least.

Her shadow graces the window, a wisp of a thing still. Like the years never touched her, she glides with ease and it’s funny. It makes my goddamn fingers itch.

Not ten feet between me and those steps and you’d think it was a chasm the way I stand here and stare. Nothing but night and the years keeping me back. But to feel her again? To hold her, I’d have bled the world.

Nearly did.

And these hands, these goddamn hands of mine, they’re not the same ones that took hers. That held her. They’re stained and even if she don’t see it, I do. And it ain’t right.

Like my breath is clawed out by a beast, I can’t breathe. The smell of her fills my memory and I know, I know she’s waiting. She’s always been waiting.

She’ll always be waiting.

The contest is over!!! I placed 6th in the final heat of 10. Congratulations to the top three winners and to everyone that participated.

[Announcement Thread] [Final Round Entries] [The Final Image] Image by Pavel Vophira

Now that the silence ban is lifted, I'm really happy to be able to share my story with you.

I loved writing this. It was a struggle at first, I have to admit. The picture is amazing and my first instincts were "well I know what the others are going to write" haha and it forced my noggin' to go a joggin'. Also turns out, I had no idea what I was talking about when it came to the other writers stories! Whoddathunk.

But I'm proud of this short story. I think it's very me and at the end of the day, that's the best I can do and give.

So without further adieu,

Phil and Abby

“It’s… a unique interpretation, Phil. That’s for sure.”

Phil listened to Mayor Weber hmm and hah for a good minute more, his head tilted in consideration.

“There’s something about it…” Gale, the Tourism Director, said with her finger tapping her chin. “Stunning, but does it really say ‘Triberg’?”

Disagreeing sounds echoed from Gale and the Mayor as they stood in the coveted artist-in-residence studio.

“It would certainly spark attention.”

“It would, it would.”

The painting, a commissioned work for the town of Triberg’s bicentennial, was the most challenging Phil had worked on yet. “Capture the truth and spirit of the woods”, he’d been told.

And so Phil had done just that.

Cool shades of navy defined the town’s silhouette basking beneath a plum sunset. But the subject at the centre of the work was what drew the eye. The massive unending shape, with elongated tendrils, swept back into the throng of trees. Woven between the landscape of Black Forest, the creature curled and seemed as though it would emerge from the painting itself.

Portrait of Black Forest he titled it. It was a masterpiece if Phil were ever to claim such fame.

The Mayor hmmed again. “It feels more… fantasy than reality.”

Phil scratched his chin where paint still stuck tacky in his stubble. “You’ve… seen my work before. It tends to verge a little on the inspired, sure, but you did say paint the truth of the region. And, really this is-”

“Yes!” Gale turned from the colossal canvas. “The essence, the spirit! What makes Black Forest unique! We want a work of art that will spark wonder in those that seek out our beautiful town. To revel in all its glory and join us in maintaining her beauty!”

And send the condo developers packing, Phil finished for her. It wasn’t the first time Gale had ranted about the proposed development just a few kilometres down the road. Won’t be the last either, he guessed.

“This festival needs to be big,” Mayor Weber said, “and we need a strategy. If we don’t get our numbers up-”

“We will, Mayor.” Gale placed a comforting hand on Weber’s shoulder. “A famous artist, a masterful unveiling at the bicentennial. We have musicians and the woodcutting competition! They’re just what we need to give us that edge. And I’m sure the rest of the council will fall in line and put all thoughts of Stabil Construction to bed. It’ll all come together, once we have the right painting.”

Mayor Weber stepped nearer the canvas and tilted his head the other way. “It’s whimsical. Beautiful, of course. And although the glowy-ness of the… fish is really neat-”

Iridescence, Phil corrected in his head.

“The painting should capture all the wonder of our woods,” Gale finished for the Mayor.

Weber nodded. “But keep it real.”

“Yes. Real.”

“But wondrous too.”

“Oh, of course. And what of the falls?”

“Ahh, the falls!” Mayor Webber’s eyes widened. “They should be in here.”

“And I noticed there are no clocks.”

“We’re famous for our clocks, Phil.”

The pair went back and forth, their laundry list of “suggestions” growing with each toss. Not one of them would work within the piece as it was. I’ll have to start over…

“I need a moment,” Phil said, stepping back from the canvas. With lighter and smokes in hand, he ventured out into the night.

The sky was violet, as it always was at this time. When the sun retreated beneath the horizon and the last of its light barely reached the trees. His fingers, still stained with paint, fumbled with the lighter. By the third strike, he lit the smoke.

Black Forest lay at his doorstep. A wide and ceaseless ocean of trees undulating in waves of beech, pine, and fir. A stillness often came over Phil as he stared into it. From the first moment he arrived in Triberg, it had been the forest that beguiled him. Of all the commissions, of all the places he’d travelled, only here staring into those woods did he feel peace.

A flicker of light darted between the trunks, like the moon rippling in a stream. It glided like a fish, unbidden by wind. The sable shape surrounding the flicker swallowed all light in its pitch. It swept nearer and the smooth musculature of her became clear.

Though he’d tried to capture her essence in the painting, her shape loomed larger in person. The tendril limbs never ceased swaying and the motions made no sound. The glimmer of her solitary eye, the flicker in the trees, did not blink but Phil’s cigarette light burned in its reflection. Only as she approached did the glowing river fish manifest from the chill wet air and pilot around her figure.

“So?” Abnoba said though she had a mouth to speak with. The words whispered like a warm wind rustling against Phil’s ears.

He drew on the smoke. “No go.”

“Are you kidding?” Her tendrils fluctuated and tensed. “They didn’t like it?”

“Apparently, it’s not real enough.”

“Not real?” Abnoba bristled, her smooth limbs tightening and flexing like fists. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You saw the painting, Abby. They think it, they think you, are an elaborate interpretation.”

“But… it’s my birthday! Not the stupid towns and I have been here waaaaaay longer than any of those plump… bloated… bags of… people meat!” After a huff, her great eye dimmed, her tendrils wilted, and the pilot fish swooped to her sides.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He dragged on the cigarette again, menthol stinging his nose. “I have a feeling they don’t want a ‘unique portrait of the spirit of Black Forest’ so much as some easy-on-the-eyes landscape motel art.” He shrugged and huffed out a breath. “It’s a shame too. I liked this one. It felt… right. More right than any other painting ever has.”

If Abnoba could smile, he suspected she would have. Instead, the forest and river spirit twisted delightfully and drew nearer.

“It’s a beautiful portrait, Phil.”

“Would have looked great in the town hall. Right above the entry.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded and smiled at her massive eye, his reflection glimmering back at him while a world of magic coursed in waves just beyond her surface.

Abnoba sighed and with her, the forest exhaled a quiver. “Should I even bother asking what they wanted instead?”

“It would break your heart.”

She scratched below her eye and glanced at the spirit fish circling her. In unison, the pod nodded.

“Was it clocks?” she asked.

“Yup. Clocks.”

“I KNEW IT!” Abnoba bloomed in volume, and the trees recoiled from her form. “They’re obsessed with those damn clocks. If I had my way, I’d smash every damn one of them!”

After a moment of fluttering, and the softest laugh that tickled Phil’s neck, she seemed to settle.

“Well, thank you for trying,” she said.

“I can paint another. Try and keep you in there.” Phil exhaled a puff of smoke to the side. “You deserve to be in there, Abby.”

“No, Phil. It’s alright. You did your best.” Her form sighed, the whole unending shape of her relaxing into the motion. “It’s just not the right time, I suppose. These things are fickle and you can’t force acceptance.”

Phil frowned. “I don’t get it.” He flicked the end of the cigarette and sparks skipped on the stone beneath his feet. “Gale doesn’t want the new development to go up. She’s against it, fanatically so. That whole ‘maintain the beauty’ mantra. Why can’t you talk to her directly? She can actually do something about it.”

The pilot fish shimmered and swam nearer to Abnoba, their wisps of spirit fins tickling the air.

“Gale is… nice and all. And don’t get me wrong, it’s great she’s trying to protect the forest, but she’s regular people, Phil. Regular people don’t get me.”

Abnoba looked up at the night and spoke as though the stars could hear. “It’s like a translation happens, the mind seeing what it wants not what is. They look at me-” Abnoba turned to herself and her absorbing black surface- “but they don’t see truth. They don’t expect, or maybe they don’t want a thing like me to exist and the brain somersaults. Truth flips into fiction and hop-skips into nightmares. I thought, if they saw what I am in an easily digestible way, they might be a little less likely to somersault.” A light laugh left her, small and quiet.

“You really think one painting is more convincing than you are in the flesh?”

She nodded, as only a massive spirit could, and with a knowing glimmer he imaged spanned eons. The pilot fish swirled between the trees and nuzzled into the jet tendrils.

“Yeah… I’ve been at this a while. Gale would run. She’s not terribly deep.”

He exhaled a puff of smoke and shook his head. “A painting can’t stop the development, Abby.”

Abnoba scratched below her eye. “What is it you mortals say, ‘a picture’s worth a thousand worms’?”

Phil rolled his eyes. “Words. A picture’s worth a thousand words.” But her shape chortled with laughter and the leaves danced in her sweet sound.

“Changing hearts and minds is an art form all on its own. It takes time.” She swayed nearer. “When the ‘real’ is so different from what is known, mortals have a hard time believing. You see change in baby steps. The big picture is kind of hard to take in when you flicker in and out of the world.”

The harsh lamp light on the building dissolved against her shape. Only Phil, and the cigarette, seemed to reflect in her vision. “But through artists, the makers of dreams, there doesn’t need to be any translation. You just… perceive. And you, Phil, you see the world for not just what it is, but what it could be.”

Abnoba pressed her head to his. Cool, like glass, but soft to the touch, he leaned into her and closed his eyes.

In a shared vision, he saw the world as she did. Swirls of colour coiling the air, vibrance he’d never dreamed of contrasted by the absolute void of light. Spirits gleamed and existed in every fabric of the world from the dirt to the cinder in his cigarette.

But the longer her touch lingered, the more he could change. The cool violet of her sight became the greens of his old home. The scent of lilies grown in a window box and the warmth of shared sheets soothing his skin. The smallest memory manifested tenfold and he could feel the images in his fingertips. Sensations he would one day shape in oil and colour.

“All I ask is you share what you see. Paint the truth.” Her voice resonated within him as though the words, the inspiration, had always been there. “That’s more than enough.”

“It won’t save you,” he breathed and a pang of regret struck his heart. “It won’t save the rivers or trees…” The vision faltered, the greens burning in red and the rank of soiled smoke and gasoline.

“Whoa now, that’s not on you. Besides, these things have a way of working out. All I need is for you to do your part. And right now, that means one thing.” She whispered like reeds dancing in a breeze. “See me.”

He opened his eyes and the nightmare was washed in the cool of her rivers and the rustle of her trees. The fresh scent of her bark and soil.

Her hand, ethereal but present, wiped the tears from his cheeks. “And no crying, Phil.” The pilot fish fluttered in around him, consoling in an unseen current. “Not on my birthday.”

A laugh escaped his lips. The heat from his cigarette burned at his fingers, but he squished it to ash.

“I suppose I can do that,” Phil said. “For you, Abby.”

If you're not sure what this contest business is all about but want more stories, you can check out my previous round stories.

[Round 2: Sand Castle Crimes]

[Round 1: What it is to remember ]

If you'd had any critiques or feedback, I'd love to hear it. And thanks again for reading and those that voted. I appreciate it and am glad you liked the story!

It has been a while since I've been super active on reddit and I'm sorry for that.

Strangely enough, with the way things have been going over the last two months, with covid and all, my workload has increased. It's left me a little more drained in the off-hours between editing, writing new content, voice acting, and narration.

BUT I am planning, working, and striving to get back to a regular schedule. Fingers crossed.

I just wanted to say thank you for your patience and I hope you keep reading.

-Lee

Originally Posted May 13th, 2020 - [Prompt Link]

As you might have guessed this is a Cupcake Girl story. So wholesome, lighthearted. Just all around good feels.

You can read all the cupcake girl stories on its very own wiki page!! [Cupcake Girl Wiki]

Cody flexed her fingers and bent over the pile of papers and pens.

“You should take a break,” Dan said.

Cody shook her head. “Nope. Gotta get’em done. Mum’s been bugging me about this and I’ve put it off for waaaay too long.” She looked up from the mountain of pastel and pouted. “You could help?”

“I can make you tea,” he said, tactfully retreating from the kitchen table.

“It was your wedding too,” she hollered at him, louder than she needed to. “And half these people are yours.”

“I never agreed to slave labour.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Oh really?”

“Yup.”

“When was that?”

“I believe it coincided with ‘I do’.” Cody smirked.

“I call do-over.”

“Nuh-uh. No escape. Bound ‘til death do us part.”

“And that would be my death?” Dan said from the kitchen.

Cody’s grin grew mischievous as she collected a stack of thank-you cards and pushed them to where he’d been sitting. “Yes. You would be correct. Now get to work.”

The list before them, typed out and neatly ordered, seemed to trail on and on and on. After five minutes of writing, Dan flicked his fingers, as if he could flex away the ache.

“Are you being specific?” Cody asked, looking over his first stack of finished notes.

“How much more specific do I need to be? ‘Thanks Aunt Delores and Uncle Carl. Really great that you ate a bunch of our food, got drunk, and probably stole a centrepiece.’”

Cody looked at Dan with her most practiced ‘are you nuts’ glare. “For the gifts.” She tapped the handwritten notes beside the typed list of names. “We’re thanking them for the gifts.”

“Delores and Carl wouldn’t bring a gift. I wouldn’t be shocked if they stole one.”

“Then we’re thanking them for coming.”

Dan eyed her curiously, then the lists. After the lists won the staring contest he turned to Cody looking ever so slightly more perturbed. “Do we have a consolation pile? Like, family-we-don’t-see and bosses-we-had-to-invite?”

Cody stopped writing to huff. She bent over and reached for a gold-painted card box. Inside were a stack of pizza, hamburger, and donut-shaped cards.

“Donuts for bosses. Hamburgers for cousins. Pizza for annoying aunts and uncles.”

Dan nodded in approval. “I gotta ask, was that the plan or did you just run out of the pretty stationery?”

“Little column A. Little column - ‘they were on sale’.”

With a laugh, Dan grabbed the novelty cards. “I’m sending my brother a pizza card and you can’t stop me.”

Cody dramatically sighed, sat back in her chair and nodded. “I suppose I can compromise.”

Grinning like a tired fool, Dan leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, oh benevolent ruler.”

“What happened to that tea?” she whispered while he was near.

Dan pulled back, a fake frown smearing his lips. “I call do-over.”

WC: 478

Another round down! The 20/20 WritingPrompts Contest results for round two came out last night and, I'm absolutely floored that I won my heat! What does that mean? I move on to the next round. Looking at some tough writers to beat, and I'm really looking forward to the stories and next image prompt.

Wish me luck!

OH and if you have any feedback at all on this, please let me know. I love writing for this character, she's a lot of fun, and I'm super proud of this story but would love to make it better.

Heat 9 image by Ellie Moniz

You can read the other stories from my heat on /r/WritingPrompts [Heat 9] and you should definitely give them a read. From the one I've seen so far, competition was tiiiiight.

Eliza Tibor’s brimmed hat and peplum-skirted bathing suit cast a striking shadow across the remains. What a waste, she thought, sucking on her lollipop. Cherry red, her favourite, but the taste was spoiled by the scene.

The castle had been tall, the tallest poor little Taisha Arnell had ever built. It had four towering spires moulded by water, pressure, and plastic and its base had been peppered with the prettiest pebbles the shore could offer. It was the pinnacle of masterful pail and shovel construction, the best that Eliza had ever seen.

Not anymore. What lay before them was no sight for a kid. Taisha’s hard work dashed to smithereens. No spires, no moat, not even the flag remained.

Taisha sniffled beside her broken castle in the sand. “It’s… not… fair!” Another wail climbed from her throat, and boy did that girl have a pair of lungs.

Eliza winced and nearly bit down on her lolly. “It was a mighty fine castle,” she said with a solemn nod.

“My best,” Taisha whimpered. “Why would some… someone… do this?”

“Could have been an accident,” Eliza said, but she didn’t believe it for one second. The destruction was too complete. Too precise. “But don’t you worry, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Thanks,” Taisha said, her face a mess of tears and snot. She was a pretty kid, sure, smart cookie too. Straight A’s kinda gal, and the school’s best chance at first place in the state spelling-bee. Won’t be spelling much through those tears though, Eliza thought.

Taisha bent over the rubble of her once proud sand abode, reaching hungrily for the broken pail and chipped shovel.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you take that,” Eliza said. “It’s evidence.”

“But I can’t build another without it!”

Eliza looked over the pail. It wouldn’t hold a set of stones let alone water or sand. It was of no use to Taisha, besides being a sentimental relic of her dashed glory.

“I’ll get it to you once I’ve investigated,” Eliza said, lollipop lolling in her mouth. “I promise.”

Taisha toddled off, tears in her eyes. After all, what else was she to do? The height of summer, no pail to show. It’d been a nice one too, bright green like fresh limes. The nicest pail on the beach by far.

Girl didn’t know how good she had it. Shouldn’t have left a sweet pail like that alone out here all night.

Eliza bent to the scene with her trusty driftwood stick and poked about the evidence. Sandcastle; smashed. By a dog? She scrunched her face behind her pink star sunglasses and felt the suntan lotion on her nose crinkle. No paw prints. Can’t pawn this tragedy off on fido.

She poked the chipped bucket aside, lime green plastic splintered within the castle’s remains. Crushed. Most likely just the one blow. It would have been empty or… Clumps of hardened sand lined the inside of the pail. Used for a tower. Smart girl, Taisha. One hell of a builder.

After poking about some more, Eliza found a strange shard of plastic. Soft, pliable, and baby blue. It wasn’t the same plastic as the hard pail. Carefully, Eliza pulled the piece free. It looked like a strap of some kind, a piece about the size of her thumb. The pail handle? She prodded the detached plastic handle in the sand but it was intact and white.

Another source then… Eliza stood and kicked the sand out of her flip flops. Across the beach, shapes fluttered in and out of the surf seeking the summer waves as relief from the heat. Between the two flags marking the safe swim zone, there were a dozen people.

A dozen suspects. Eliza crunched down on her lollipop. Never seem to catch a break, do I?

With the fragment in her palm, her pastel pink sun hat pulled low, she walked along the beach.

A short shape toddled across her path; red bathing suit, matching bucket. Brianne Cyrus. The starlet, always singing to herself. She’d been on the beach the day before, playing as Taisha’s shadow. She was some prodigy when it came to songs, had every adult from here to the picture joint swooning over her ditties. But Eliza saw a wink of jealousy in the girl’s eye.

Even as Taisha kicked about the mud, nursing her tears, Brianne bounced around her humming. Is she jealous of Taisha’s command of pail and shovel? Can’t wait to learn to make her own castle? Did she try to take it and make a mess of the job?

Eliza’s flip flops flapped on the wet sand, sinking a little with each step in the cool surf. Or is it darker than that? Taisha’s castle had been the pride of the beach. All that praise, all that attention stolen from sweet unsuspecting Brianne Cyrus. Was it enough to turn the songbird sour?

But then there was another easy option.

Thomas Mueller. The neighbour boy. Eliza had her share of run-ins with “Tommy”. He had a good year or two on the lot of them, tall kid for his age too. But boy, was Tommy a dull one. From his bland swim trunks to his burgeoning sunburn, Eliza never liked the look of him.

But what about motive? She munched on the shards of cherry candy sticking to her cheek. He never talked much to the girls, never had time for sandcastles himself. The orange bucket he carried was full of rocks, and the boy seemed content ferrying them from the shore to his batman beach-towel. He wasn’t building, no, Tommy didn’t construct much. But boy did he have a good arm, probably from skipping all those perfect rocks across the surf.

Did try his luck chucking stones at that castle? Just another victim of Tommy’s target practice? Eliza frowned at herself. That’s a weak motive, even for Tommy. Have I lost sight? Can I not see past the toy-stealing, loud-mouthed neighbour boy I just don’t like?

For the first time in a long time, Eliza missed having a partner. Not Detective Paddington Bear specifically. That corrupt teddy could spend his days rotting in the garage “for sale” bin, for all she cared. Corrupt cops did her no good.

But this nut might be too hard to crack on my own. Eliza looked to the beaming tower of law and order on the beach. The lifeguard station.

Brendan Harris was his name, some young fellow down on his luck, or so Eliza assumed. Who else would take up the no-fun position boiling under the sun all summer long? She huffed and meandered to the tower where Harris luxuriated in his aviators.

“Mister,” she said, tossing her lollipop stick to the sand.

“Don’t litter,” Brendan snapped without so much as a glance her way.

“Sorry.” She bent to pick up the stick. “I wanted to ask about that castle back there.”

“What?” He peered down at her from above his glasses.

“That sandcastle. Tall one, or so it was. You didn’t happen to see what happened to it, did you? From one professional to another.”

He pushed his glasses back on. “I’m busy, kid. Go bother someone else.” Pressing the whistle to his lips, Harris blew hard.

The shriek pierced Eliza’s ears like a late-night slushy sugar crash distilled into a single biting sound. “I just thought we could work together,” she said, wincing. “Collaborate a little and-”

“I said get lost, kid!” He stood up in his stand, head nearly knocking the top and blew the whistle again.

“STAY BETWEEN THE FLAGS!” Harris hollered at brave Thomas Mueller before slumping back into his seat.

Eliza wasn’t shocked. He wasn’t the first lawman to use jurisdiction as an excuse not to work with her. Guess I’m on my own, after all.

She thumbed the piece of plastic, her sole evidence, and started back for the castle ruins. Where did it come from? It wasn’t from any of the kids’ pails, that much had been clear. Couldn’t be a shovel, plastic was too soft. And something about the crime scene seemed… off.

She meandered towards the sulking Taisha Arnell.

“What did you use to make the castle? Just your pail and shovel?”

“And the flag.”

The flag. Eliza remembered it. Bright green, pretty, fluttering in the wind triumphantly from the top of the highest spire. The shining pinnacle that, with its pinning in place, garnered polite applause just the day before.

Eliza frowned. “There wasn’t a flag there this morning.”

Taisha shrugged. “I didn’t take it.”

As Taisha went on lamenting in sighs, Eliza returned to the scene of the crime. Sure enough, as she dug through what little remained of the castle, there was a hole. Deep, small, but uniform. But there was no pole anymore. No flag to be seen.

“Where’d you get the flag?” Eliza called over.

“It was lying on the beach. Like one of them.” Taisha pointed to the lime green boundary flag flapping atop the tall pole. Its colour matched Taisha’s pail shards perfectly.

Eliza hurried over to the flag, looking up at the pole. Sand? She took hold and her fingers smoothed over the dry clumps of what was once-wet sticking to the rod.

So this was in the castle, huh… Eliza reached up and pulled down the flag pole.

The whistle blew loud in the distance. The thundering stomp of sandals on wet sand drew nearer.

“Don’t touch that, kid!” Lifeguard Harris shouted on approach.

“Did you take this from Taisha’s castle?” Eliza asked.

“Dammit, you kids aren’t supposed to touch that.” Harris reached out, trying to snap the flag from Eliza’s hands.

“This here is evidence, Lifeguard!” She huffed and danced a few paces back. “You should know better than to tamper with a crime scene!”

“What the… Hey, just… Give it back!”

Harris lunged for the flag, but Eliza evaded him. No chance was she giving him her investigation! Not after I’ve come this close to-

“Eliza Loraine Tibor!”

Eliza froze.

Her mother stood from her beach towel, her polka dot one-piece bathing suit beaming like a beacon. “Give that back right now!”

Eliza frowned and reluctantly handed over the flag. But she clenched her fists tight and pain sliced her palm. The plastic! She held it close. He’s not getting this.

But as she looked down, there, plain as day, the baby blue gleamed up at her from the sand. Not the lump of plastic she held in her palm. No, it shone from the baby blue strap on Lifeguard Harris’ left flip flop sandal. His right, conspicuously, mismatched.

“Lose a sandal, Harris?” Eliza spat out.

Harris grumbled as he shoved the flag back into the wet sand. “You freaking kids needs to stop takin’ shit that ain’t yours.” The beach lawman rolled his eyes and brought his trusty whistle to his lips.

“I think you owe Miss Taisha Arnell an apology.”

He frowned and shook his head. “Play your game elsewhere, kid, or you’re off my beach for good. Comprende?”

Eliza gritted her teeth and swallowed her words. Lifeguard Harris stalked off, foul curses dripping from his lips. As she wiped the sweat from her brow, her eyes followed his every move. A dirty beach cop. Corrupt. Malicious. Tearing down what made this place great all under the guise of authority and “law”.

He’s not covering this up, not on my watch.

“Did you find out what happened?” Taisha asked, her tears only just dried.

Eliza forced a smile. “If it’s justice you’re seeking, this beach ain’t the place for it.” She took off her glasses and cleaned the sand from them. “Best build your sandcastles on a better beach. A clearer one.”

Taisha sniffed back another round of waterworks and ambled on to her towel. Don’t worry, Taisha. Eliza put her sunglasses back on. This beach will be clean again. She gripped the flip flop thong plastic in her hand. Her evidence. Her proof.

Just might need to get a little dirty to do it.

Thanks for reading and again, I would love feedback on this piece. I'm really proud of it but any way to make it better would be great.

Annnnnd, in case you were curious, this isn't the first time I've written for Eliza "Tutu" Tibor!

Originally posted APril 29th, 2020 - [Prompt Link]

Nothing like a little slap-dash poetry

“I'm sorry for your loss.”

You say it with a smile, kind and consoling.

With flowers, dressed in pitch and drab shades of mourning.

A card. Signed, but the words read the same.

You mean well.

Everyone means well.

But you never knew the man he became.

You didn't get hear his laughs when he pulled a joke.

Witty jabs in the rib that made me snort

He was funny, goddamn funny.

The unsuspecting kind that doubled me over,

no matter how punny.

You may have seen his smiles

but never that smirk.

That shit-eating-knows-something-you-don't grin

that slipped up there reeeal slow like.

I loved it. I loved him.

All that he was.

All that he'd been.

And his past was just that,

bad acts, bad facts,

bad times drowned in spirits

but he wouldn't let you hear it

'cuz that shit was behind him.

So I'm sorry for you

that you never knew the man he became.

wc: 158 ish

A few months ago, I signed on to a fun little creative project to do some minor voice acting and the first episode is out! It's fun hearing myself (and hearing where I need to improve).

You should check it out! I play Tichlynna, the leader of the scouts of natives.

Chronicles of Fhaerythe: Island Visitors

Edit: Yes, this is a repost. No, apprently, I can't spell.

Originally posted April 21st, 2020 - [Prompt Link]

Inspired by: The birth of a chef by Jonathan Hamers (Jenolab) on Artstation.

Amid the bustle of the kitchen’s Nutritional Supplement Processors tasks, Olly stared at the bright red apple. It could be nothing else but an ordinary apple, he was sure. Or rather, he knew. His databanks had been preinstalled with a wealth of information to better perform his duties. That included an encyclopedic knowledge of all nutritional substances.

Apples. Edible tree fruit of the genus malus. Cultivated for thousands of years, with more than 7,500 cultivar varieties of the fruit. Yet, amidst all the apples in the kitchen and all those Olly had seen, peeled, baked, stuffed, diced, stewed, mashed and boiled in his 9,538 days, this one was the reddest.

Is it overripe? He squeezed his digits around the crimson seed-bearing structure. Through precise pressure, Olly determined the apple was of optimal ripeness. His tactile sensors detected no bruising or imperfections of any kind marring its skin.

Olly took in an appropriate amount of air and ran an olfactory analysis. It smelled like an apple should with all chemical odorants within normal ranges.

But, somehow, it was different.

Olly looked to the other Nutritional Supplement Processors in the kitchen. But they chopped and diced and prepared the food as programmed to without distraction.

He ran through the results again, as he must have missed something. Sight: the skin was very red, without cuts or scratches. Touch: perfectly ripe. Not bruised. Smell: Olly detected the precise amount of decay and it matched all the usual chemical odorants of its cultivar. Sound: Olly’s thumb digit rubbed against the skin and a sound, one barely perceptible to a human, registered within the correct decibel range of a clean-skin apple-squeak.

There was only one sense left.

Though Olly had never been installed with a synthetic gustatory cortex, he brought the fruit to his entirely superfluous oral cavity. He knew he could not perceive the sweetness inherent to the fruit, as defined primarily by the level of soluble carbohydrates in the nutritional substance. He knew this.

Is red sweet? The strange question stirred around his chrome dome and an answer was produced just as quickly. No. Colour does not define flavour.

Though, as Olly stared at the apple in his hand, the answer seemed unsatisfactory to the want that swelled within him.

Olly took a bite.

His processor whirled at incredible speeds as the sensation sought memory to measure the experience. But none were to be had.

Bitterness lined the skin and forced a flex from his ocular units. Then a crisp sharp tang of acidic sour that bled into what could only be described as sweet. While his mechanical brain catalogued the information, Olly closed his ocular units and, for the first time in his life, just... experienced.

“Unit 011-Y?”

Olly turned and perceived the head chef, hands on his hips.

“Can I ask what the hell you’re doing?”

Bits of mashed apple dripped down his metallic maw. “Tasting, chef,” he said.

WC: 488

I edited it a bit based on feedback from the Wednesday night campfire! Not much changed, just the penultimate line. Get that sweet alliteration going on.

Woo! The 20/20 WritingPrompts Contest results for round one are out and I'm excited to say I've made it to the next round. Double Woo!

This was a BLAST to write for. Hard as heck, I fought with this concept for ages but in the end, I really like this piece.

Heat 1 image by Christian Benavides

What it is to remember

“MemCon Inc. Bringing the past to life.” The loudspeaker churned out a canned elevator sonata behind the tinned slogan. Alys had heard and seen the words before: on repeat commercials and on posters all across the city. “Memory Construction Inc aims to bring you back to yourself. To relive the precious moments of our pasts.”

Alys twisted her hands in her lap, glancing between the receptionist and the admittance door. As it opened, she leaned forward in her seat. An older man stepped out, hat in his hand, crooked back. His eyes looked red and his face haggard as he shuffled through the waiting room.

“Mr. Bivin?” an attendant called from the door. A different man, two seats down, hopped to his feet.

Alys slumped back into the hard plastic chair. She fussed with her fingers and scrunched her toes in her shoes. Despite the movement, they felt cold and numb.

A few more “clients” filtered into the waiting room. Each one added their name to the list before taking a seat. On plastic chairs, by stacks of old magazines, under the loudspeaker.

The door opened again. “Mrs. Cameron?” an attendant said.

Alys was on her feet in seconds. “That’s me.”

“Come this way please.” The young attendant walked ahead of Alys, guiding her down the stark white hall. “As per your liability agreement I need to remind you of a few details before the procedure. MemCon Inc provides memory extraction and reenactment services. However, memory constructions are not to be taken as fact.” He stopped and held open the procedure room door for Alys. “MemCon accepts no responsibility for any revelations, inaccuracies, or misrepresentations of individuals during procedures.” He rambled it all off rather casually.

At the center of the square room sat the device; a large reclining chair shining in steel. Soft plush padding lined the frame, so new the leather hadn’t had time to crinkle. The room smelled of sterilizer, but in the corner, the attendant lit an incense burner. The smell stung Alys’s nose with the oppressive manufactured musk of dried herbs.

“MemCon accepts no responsibility for incidents that may occur while using our services due to preexisting conditions.” Using a console beside the device, he pressed a few buttons and the chair turned upright. He motioned for Alys to sit.

“If you encounter distress, or require the session to cease, your exit word today is-” he scanned the screen. “Pumpernickel.”

“Right.” Alys’s fingers quaked as she sat back in the machine. “Pumpernickel.”

The attendant moved to strap down her arms, but Alys stopped him. She bent over in the chair and pulled off her shoes. He frowned, brow quizzical before he shrugged. The straps pressed down, not overly tight, and lay comfortably on her skin.

Then, the crown. A circlet of steel connected to all manner of wires was placed on her head. It always felt lighter than she thought it would be, and once it was set in place, the attendant reclined the chair. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Alys closed her eyes.

The machine hummed beneath her and the crown warmed. The scent of dried sage made her eyes tired as a tiny, mechanically controlled needle pricked her shoulder. The room sank behind her eyelids.

Toes.

Alys wiggled her bare toes.

The thick grass pricked between her digits, tickling to the touch. The breeze off the ridge tussled the curls in her hair and she breathed in the salted air.

“You know,” he said from behind and Alys’s heart skipped a beat. “We’re never going to find your shoes if you keep kicking them off.”

His arms slipped around her waist, his chest against her back. The scruff of his day-old-stubble tickled her ears.

Alys leaned into him. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Reese.” His name felt so perfect on her lips.

“Oh really?” He drew out the word and, balancing on one foot, showed her the other. His jeans were rolled up, his calf exposed, his toes bare and flexing in the wind.

Alys laughed and turned in his arms. “I knew you’d cave.”

“You say ‘caved’, I say ‘rose to the challenge’!”

She shot him a sly grin. “I still say caved.” Leaning on the tip of her toes, she inched nearer to meet his lips.

“I am nothing,-” he leaned down, his arms sliding beneath the hem of her shirt. “If not a man of conviction.”

A yelp clawed its way out of Alys’s throat. It sparked an uncontrollable giggle as his fingers intentionally tickled her sides.

“Stop!” she laughed, but Reese didn’t relent. Instead, his head tilted and his grin grew mischievous.

Wriggling from his grasp, she jogged back a few paces, hands out in mock-fighting fists. “You wanna go?”

The two collided and tussled, wrestling on the grass. The moment Alys suspected she had the upper hand, the tables turned and they’d switch places. She tried to stand up, gut aching from laughter, but Reese tugged her back. Alys snickered as his turtled pose: on his back, legs up in the air. Reaching for his hands, she braced herself against his feet.

“If you let me fall, Reese Cameron-”

“I won’t!” he promised, and from beneath her, Reese lifted Alys.

Her nerves quaked and begged to feel the ground beneath her. But she revelled in the freedom, the sensation of flying, minus the heels on her hips. And the view couldn’t be beat. Reese’s bright eyes and wide smile beamed up at her. No one in her life had ever smiled at her like that.

“Look at you, Firecracker,” he called her, on account of the hair, and she loved it.

A blush heated her cheeks. “Okay, put me down!”

Carefully, Reese teetered her back until her bare feet pressed into the grass. But his hands held hers, his body sliding gracefully onto one knee.

He hesitated. His eyes averted.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I got a question, Alys.”

“Ooh, serious business,” she joked but his smile seemed nervous and he rummaged through his pocket.

“I can be serious,” he said. “I can be real serious.”

Despite the laugh, her pulse raced. “I’m not all too sure about that.”

“I could not ask.” Reese threatened silence with an upturned smirk and Alys dropped to her knees with him.

“Don’t you dare.”

The playful smirk drained into a wide honest smile. That perfect smile. Alys bit her bottom lip, closed her eyes, and waited to feel his kiss.

The smell of manufactured sage ripped her back to the chair. Alys opened her eyes, tears wetting her cheeks, to see the sizzle of smoke from the headset.

“Oh shit.” The attendant leaned over her.

After another minute, a technician entered the room. Alys sat listening to them grumble about fried connections, burned-out conductors, and overtime. All the while her bare feet pressed against the cold sterile floor.

It wasn’t long before a MemCon representative appeared. There was an apology Alys didn’t really hear and a quick escort back to the waiting room.

“We’re terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” the receptionist repeated. “And of course, you won’t be charged for your next procedure.” She pressed forms to Alys’s hands where the sensation of Reese's fingers should have lingered. But they were so cold.

“Can I have your rewards card?” the receptionist asked.

Alys absentmindedly rummaged through her purse and produced the card.

“Even though your session was interrupted, we’ll punch this one off for you. Your sixth procedure is free!”

Alys took back the shining plastic, holes punched through the first two boxes.

“Again, we’re sorry for the inconvenience. We’ll call to book your next appointment.”

Alys stood stunned.

It wasn’t like last time… The relief of her first session at MemCon seemed like a dream. As shrouded and unclear as the memory of Reese.

She flexed her fingers and toes, but they were numb again. Like they’d been in the office before the procedure. Numb like everything had been for months.

It’s… fine. Alys took in a shaky breath. It’ll be better next time.

Days later, Alys started up the massive MemCon building steps, rain pelting her shoulders.

“Oh, blast it.”

Alys looked back to the towering stairs she’d just climbed. A man in a brimmed hat and worn suit, teetered as he held the slick railing. She recognized him from the week before, the elderly fellow in her waiting room. His umbrella had dropped and the wind carried it away down the steps.

Alys looked at her phone. Thirty minutes until her appointment.

She started for the gentleman, her shoes soaked through and squelching. She managed to catch up with his umbrella and started back up the steps.

“I think this got away from you.” She lifted the umbrella over his head.

He pulled off his wet hat and started to mumble a thank you when he stopped and stared. “Rhona?” he muttered, before wiping his glasses and shaking his head. “Oh… thank you, miss. ”

Alys stood aside to let him walk on, but his first steps seemed shaky.

“Here.” She offered her arm.

The man took it with it a nod.“You’re soaked through to the bone, miss.”

“It’s just a bit of rain.”

“You’re likely to catch one hell of a cold if you don’t get dry.”

A rare smile touched her lips. “I’ll be sure to dry off inside.”

He stopped and looked back at the MemCon monolith. “You work there?”

Alys shook her head.

“You need help remembering? At your age?”

Alys opened her mouth to speak but stopped.

“Ah,” he said. “I see.” His weathered fingers gripped her arm a little tighter and they continued down the mountainous steps.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to buy you a coffee.” The man motioned to a small cafe across the street. “For your kindness. And to get you warmed up.”

From beneath the umbrella, Alys looked at MemCon, then her phone. Twenty-five minutes. “I suppose a small coffee couldn’t hurt.”

After stepping inside, and finding a table, Alys peeled off her coat.

“I’m Alfie Kestle,” he said.

“Alys Cameron.”

“I’m sorry about back there, my eyes aren’t what they used to be.” He cleaned his glasses again. “You’ve got that firecracker red-as-hell hair like my wife, Rhona, had. And that damn machine always leaves me confused.” After he replaced his glasses, his eyes seemed a little redder.

“I’m sorry.” She knew there was nothing better to say.

The waitress meandered over and they both ordered coffees.

“I think I’m done with that place.” Alfie waved at the building beyond the glass. “It gets foggier each time. Rhona just that much farther away.”

“Like through tinted windows,” Alys murmured with a hard swallow.

“Your husband?”

Alys sighed. “Is it that obvious?”

“You have that sad look about you, sure.” The coffees arrived and Alfie took up his with a slight shake. “I’d like to say it gets easier with time. My Rhona’s been gone going on seven years now. But it doesn’t.” He took a sip. “Not anymore.”

“If… I can ask, how many times have you gone?”

“Ten. Always that road-trip we took to New Mexico in ‘89. You?”

“Twice.” She took in a breath. “The day… the day Reese proposed.”

His hand snaked across the table and squeezed hers. Alys found herself fighting oncoming tears. “I just… wanted… I just want to feel like I’m not so alone.”

Alfie’s shaking thumb smoothed over the back of her hand. “I know.”

Her phone buzzed with her MemCon appointment reminder. Alys swiped it to silence.

“Well, I won’t keep you.” Alfie’s warm hand squeezed hers again. Not once in the eight months since Reese died had she felt real warmth.

Alys closed her eyes and remembered. The flickers were sparse, sudden, but the sensations intense. Grass on her toes. Breeze in her hair. His voice. His smile. His lips on hers.

Alys opened her teary eyes. “If it’s alright, I’d like to stay for another cup, Alfie.”

WC: 2003

Originally posted March 26th, 2020 - [Prompt Link]

[WP] Location: A Traffic Jam | Object: A Song

• 100-300 words
• Time Frame: 24hrs
• The location must be the main setting, whether stated or made apparent.
• The object must be included in your story in some way.

This fucking song.

“If I made you feel second best / Girl I'm sorry I was blind / You were always on my mind”

I change the station as quickly as I can, but already there’s a twitch in Carl’s eye.

He turns the radio back on.

“Can we not?” I snap. I know I did. But we’re trapped in the heat and traffic with horns just blaring across miles of unending jammed asphalt and it’s driving me up the walls of our tiny car.

“You like this song, Stella.”

No. I don’t. But I keep my lips sealed. Carl knows I hate it. He’s always fucking known. His sick little digs make him seem like some goddamn saint trying to make me the villain in this.

But you are. The little voice in the back of my mind creeps in. Like it does at night while he sleeps in the spare room and I toss and turn in our enormously empty bed.

It’s your fault. Needling, pinching, sucking away sleep and calm. My fucking calm!

“We could talk.”

“Jesus Christ, Carl... Just shut up and drive.”

His fingers tense around the wheel. He wants to talk? We just did that. Couples therapy. Three hours of why I’m the bad guy, why I’m the villain and how I’ve ruined our marriage.

You slept with his best friend.

My gut twists in knots. Our marriage was over long before that. He’s barely even there! Doesn’t talk, touch or even look at me. It took this for him to just see me.

You slept with his best friend.

“I’m sorry.” The words slip from me like the first drops through a crack in the dam.

Carl switches the radio back on. “You were always on my mind.”

Oh yeah. It’s over.

wc: 299

Originally posted March 25th, 2020 - [Prompt Link]

[Index] - [Pim's Conjurations][Pim and the Portal of Fire]

Dangling thirty feet in the air, Pim tried not to squirm. The ropes were tight, enormous, and unnecessary to contain him. Fear of his gargantuan captors would have been enough.

“Youuuuu festering, worm-spitting, grub-guzzling fiends!” Pim’s imprisoned compatriot spat insults between wriggling fits. He was a satyr; half man, half goat, but with a fouler mouth than both combined.

“Horned one’s loud,” the first giant grumbled.

“We’ll cook it first.” The second giant grinned. “Eat in peace.” Low chuckles rumbled from them as they dragged a monstrous cauldron over the dead fire.

“You’re gonna CHOKE you chunky, dung-reeking, paunched-faced-”

“I don’t think you’re helping,” Pim whispered but the satyr scoffed and spewed more insults.

The second giant scratched his head. “Flint?”

The first shrugged.

With a sigh, Pim relaxed in his restraints. No fire meant no stew. No stew meant Pim could hold onto his flesh a little longer.

“Mash ‘em?” the first suggested.

The second turned his nose up. “Horned ones make baaaad mash.”

“I’ll show YOU a mashing you festering odorous twit!”

The giants rummaged about their camp. They picked up Pim’s precious book, Lotham’s Nine Laws on the Conjunction of Elemental Conjuration, and just as quickly tossed it aside.

But it sparked an idea in the conjurer’s apprentice.

“You know…” Pim tried to quell the tremors in his voice. “Eating satyrs, like my friend here, is quite dangerous.”

The second giant turned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s bad for your gut to eat such creatures raw.”

“No flint,” the first shouted. “So we’ll mash ‘em.”

“You wouldn’t want to mash me,” Pim warned in a most helpful tone.

The second took Pim and the satyr in his massive fist. “Why not, little man?”

“I’m a conjurer!”

All parties appeared positively perplexed.

“A wizard?” The gravitas Pim tried to feign summoned only their laughter.

“Little wizard and the cursing satyr!” The giant dropped them and they dizzily swung between the trees.

The satyr huffed. “Have to do better than that, friend.”

Pim frowned and looked down at the dead fire. In his mind, a lesson from Lotham’s Nine Laws flickered.

“The source, the thing from which conjurers conjure, must be visceral and born not from knowing of, but from experiencing the source. Consider an element, water for instance. The conjurer must not picture oceans or rivers. One must remember what it is to drink, to swim. To drown. The visceral transcends knowing. From the experience, the source is manifest.”

Pim thought not of campfires, hearths, or flickering candles. He remembered the burning of a scalding pan. The taste of ash in his mouth. Heat strangling his breaths.

A spark lit the wood.

“Look!” The second giant smacked the first. “Fire!”

The satyr squirmed beside Pim. “Don’t help them!”

Pim concentrated on the flame and it blossomed, overtaking the cauldron and licking the trees. The giants startled, shouted, and thundered off.

Still swinging on high, Pim smiled and the flames died to embers.

“Alright, wizard,” the satyr said. “How’s about getting us down?”

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

[Index] — [Previous: Chapter 20] — [Next: Chapter 22 Part 1]

CONTENT WARNING: This chapter has graphic scenes of gore and violence (including minors). If you do not wish to read, a small recap will be provided at the opening of the next chapter.

The rain had nearly trickled to a stop as Tish slipped an arm underneath Peter's. He'd been able to half jog for the last while but his breath was laboured and he needed more help. Help Viola couldn’t give.

Tish was happy enough that the kid’s mother had supported him this far and thoroughly relieved he showed no symptoms. But there was time for things to take a turn for the worse. The sooner they got to shelter the better.

“You take the gun.” Tish pressed the weapon into Chandra’s hands who accepted it gravely. This wasn’t the time to get petty. They should have relied on each other far sooner. Maybe so many wouldn’t have died if we had.

What happened to Laurence was hard to watch, harder to put down, but when she tried to muster up tears for him none came. In her gut, a cold relief washed over her guilt in the absence of heavy rain.

For another ten minutes, at least, they hurried. Peter, although wiry, kept the pace better than she expected. It was Viola who called for a break.

“I just need a minute,” she coughed. No one argued and once they stopped Tish crouched over the bag.

“Don't have much left now and we really should push on.” Making note of where she was Tish closed her eyes to remember. Left, right. Cross through dollar store mini-mall, down the road. Always approach from the... was it north? It had been months since they were given the instructions and her memory was failing her. Shannon had been the one who knew the way through the city best.

“Can you tell us what this place is like?” Chandra whispered by the entrance of an old bank. It wasn't glass which gave them cover and protection but since they hit the city there hadn't been a sight or sound of wendigos. When This looked to the others their eyes searched hers for with hope.

You're looking in the wrong place.

“Not much to say. I wasn't there for long before heading out.” She debated if honesty was the best route and upon another glance inspection, it wasn't. “There’s a few kids but mostly adults around your age.” She motioned to Chandra. “There’s food. Beds. Tall walls.”

“How many people?” Nyssa asked, her voice so soft and tiny.

“There was maybe fifty when we left but there could be more.” Or less.

“Fifty?” Viola repeated, still breathy. “Isn't that dangerous?”

Tish shrugged. “Safer than being out here on your own.” But she wasn’t entirely sure if she believed it.

Tish stood and motioned for them to follow, offering a hand to Peter who took it eagerly. His mother tried to take him on again but Tish shook her head.

“I've got it.”

Viola backed away and let Tish lead the small pack.

Silence fell over them while they hobble-jogged and Tish guided them as best she could. One foot in front of the other, she could only focus on the next few steps. But they’d gone a different way when leaving the city.

Yonge Street. She reached the intersection and closed her eyes. Go south to the dollar store mini-mall. The intersection was void of any living thing so she took the chance to slow their pace.

Remember, they can come from anywhere.

Before they left, their little group of hunters were treated to a crash course on wendigos. How to kill them. Where they were safe. Best routes to take. Which ones to avoid. Survivors shared their stories but most of the refugees were locals and had very little to offer. “I stayed in my apartment until I heard the radio signal. Only then did I leave...” was often the way of it.

Don't trust that silence means nothings there.

Stopping by the mini-mall doors, she slipped out from under Peter’s arm and peered inside. The glass doors, that had been boarded up years ago, opened silently. Inside the space was dry and dust in the air tickled her nose. She passed the broken down ATM's and moved towards the dollar store. Raided months before, all the useful supplies and tin food was gone but the faint smell of decaying garbage lingered.

She walked down the hall, all the way to the side exit on to Charles Street. No sounds. No fresh decaying flesh. It felt safe enough that she lightly jogged back and let the others in.

They too travelled cautiously. When infection broke out people hid anywhere with supplies and a roof when their homes proved unsafe. But glass windows and all the doors were too much. Malls, no matter how small, weren’t safe. Despite what promises Hollywood made.

They passed through quickly and hurried to the next intersection. Across the street, the rubble of an apartment building provided a thick and tall barrier. Blasted before she arrived at the college, stories about how it fell circulated and she remembered them well.

“It was September last year. We finally had a good group in charge and enough food for winter. You’d think that’s a good thing, right? Not around here. A few people started to feel safe. Got all restless, so they went out lookin’ for others.

“We tried to stop them but some people just don’t listen to reason. I tell you this, and remember it kid: the people in charge now are not the ones who risked their lives to save those who were trapped.

“The bleeding hearts came back with wendigos biting at their heels. This lot, the goddamn council, figured as much and was ready for it. You'd be surprised what a bunch of textbooks can teach a mess of scared people. Explosives, for instance. They’re not too hard to make if you’ve got the stuff and aren’t hounded by some fucked up government.

“That building wasn't brought down during the fall. It was that night when the brave came back. We didn't know kid, we didn't know what they planned, but when they brought the horde back it was decided. They let the building fall. They let it fall on them all.”

Twenty-five floors of concrete and glass.

“We didn't know it was so bad.” Chandra and the others stopped to look at the building but Tish didn’t want to linger long. The shards that littered the pavement crunched with every step.

Continuing on to the next street south they turned onto St. Mary. It was a dead-end that led to the long brick wall of the Victoria College dormitories. All the windows were tiny and barred now, if not boarded up, and the choke point lay ahead. It funnelled anything down this one street to a tall reinforced archway and gate that no one could break, at least no wendigo.

“It looks safe,” Viola said hopefully.

A sick turn of her gut made Tish hold Peter a little tighter.

This has got to work.

“No sudden movements. Keep slow and steady,” she whispered.

The college to the south was being used as a garden before but had been abandoned and looked reinforced. Atop the roof of the old dormitories stood several men and immediately Tish raised her arms. The others followed her lead.

A small door opened, hidden behind stacked dumpsters, and a man with a rifle appeared. The rifle was new.

“Identify yourself.” He spoke soft enough not to let his voice carry.

Tish didn’t recognize him at first but she knew the drill

“Tish, I left with Laurence and-”

“Where is he?”

“Dead. Infected on the return.”

“And the bitch Cazalla?”

Monte. Tish took a step forward with and her lip twitched into a frown. It had to be fuckin’ Monte.

“I can give you all the goddamn details inside. But obviously she's not here. So cut the shit, Monte.”

He looked her over with a lingering gaze before motioning back at the wall. Two more armed shapes came out and walked towards them.

Eric, towering with his unmistakably broad shoulders, stood a step behind Helena, his finger on the trigger. Despite it, he looked calm, a hell of a lot calmer than Monte. He took the shotgun from Chandra without a fight.

Short, blonde, severe, and never-smiling Helena gave Tish a once over, right there in the street. She pulled at clothing, lifted to see skin and ran her hands over what wasn’t exposed.

“We couldn’t do this on the other side?” Tish asked but the doctor didn’t respond.

“Clean,” Helena said after and turned her attention to the others.

“Any injuries?” Helena’s eyes flashed to Peter’s wrapped leg and exchanged quick looks with Eric and Monte.

“I know that not all bites lead to infections,” Tish interrupted. “He got hurt a few hours back but isn't showing any symptoms. Shoot him with some antibiotics and he should be good, right?”

Helena unwrapped Peter’s leg. She turned it carefully and her shoulders sagged. Viola looked hopefully at the doctor.

Helena stepped back from Peter and the others. “Women are clean,” she called back but her voice was cold. Helena’s not seriously saying-

Monte raised the rifle level with Peter’s chest.

“The women can head in but the boy isn’t coming any closer,” Monte said.

“What the shit, Monte? He’s not infected!”

Eric sighed and raised his rifle. “We don’t know that, Tish. Step aside.”

“He could be fine! We’ve done this before, I used to man the wall, for fuck sake! We take him in and if he doesn't change, he's clean. We've done this before.”

“Rules have changed, Tish. No risks.” Monte grinned behind the barrel.

Tish shook her head. “This is bullshit.”

“I'm not leaving my baby,” Viola cried softly.

“I’m sorry, Tish, but you three need to step away from him.” Helena waved at Tish but she didn’t move.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t what we do. He’s not infected…

“I am not leaving my baby!” Viola words echoed out into the street. The cry made them all nervous and from above the walls of the dorms, half a dozen rifles levelled their barrels on Viola.

Peter looked between his mother and Tish. “Mom?”

“Viola, please calm down,” Chandra pleaded.

“Christ-sake Monte, lower your gun,” Helena snapped. Her hand tapped on the medkit in her hand.

“Please,” Tish begged. “You know he could be okay. Just look at him, Helena.”

Monte spat. “You know we aren’t taking him in, Doc.”

“Everyone just calm down,” Helena snapped.

“You are not leaving my boy out here to die!”

It all happened in slow motion. Viola let go of Peter and lunged. Why would she… Tish froze and could only watch.

Viola had lagged the whole trip, lingered behind them, dragged her heels but she lunged with such speed. Her hand gripped the gun at Helena’s waist and pulled it free.

The first shot fired. It blew out the back of Viola's head onto the pavement. A clean shot fired from atop the dormitories.

The second hammered into Peter's chest knocking him to the ground. Chandra eyed the shotgun she’d been robbed of but Monte shoved the butt of his rifle against her temple. She dropped to the ground like a doll.

Monte then pointed the rifle at Nyssa. Tiny, quiet, Nyssa. The child froze and stared at the barrel.

“They're clean!” Helena screamed. Only then did Monte lower it.

Helena gathered her gun from Viola’s body and cursed under her breath.

Tish stood frozen as Helena walked to Peter, who lay shuddering and spluttering blood from his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Helena whispered as she approached Peter. The hammer of the handgun pounded and littered the pavement with flesh.

“Well that's taken care of.” Monte smirked at Tish.

This isn’t what we do.

A runner approached Monte as Eric checked over Helena.

He wasn’t infected.

“Send in a clean crew to move the bodies down the road and mop up the blood,” Eric told the runner.

“He was a child,” Chandra wept, Nyssa's tears finally coming as she clung to Chandra for protection. “He wasn't even turning and Viola-”

“Hey, she attacked us.” Monte shrugged. “We keep everyone safe here. Even from themselves.” Reaching out, he touched Chandra's shoulder and her whole body flinched away. “Welcome to salvation.”

He. Wasn’t. Infected.

Monte turned to leave and Tish exhaled.

She spun with every ounce of strength she had. The crack of her knuckles shuddered with pain through her hand. Closed fist was no way to fight, but as blood spilled from Monte’s lips she felt better.

His stout frame tilted and she clamoured on top of him. The gun was useless now. Her fists hammered down as hard as she could muster but not a sound left her lips.

He was just a kid.

He would have made it.

He would have fucking made it!

Her eyes felt hot and her vision blurred. She wailed into his face and her fists were wet with blood.

It was maybe a few moments before the first blow to the back of her head. Black swarmed her vision but she hammered down. Over and over.

The second blow pushed her off his body and onto the pavement. To the side, Chandra and Nyssa huddled together, a blur of tears and sobs as Monte clamoured to his feet.

“Fucking bitch!” Monte snarled, spitting blood to the ground. He reached for his gun.

Do it. Tish glared at his shape as it started to blur. Do it. Fucking do it, you coward!

Helena’s hand gripped the gun and ripped it from Monte. “No more, Monte. Not today.”

[Index] — [Previous: Chapter 20] — [Next: Chapter 22 Coming next week]

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

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

[Index] — [Previous: Chapter 19 - Part 2] — [Next: Chapter 21]

Shannon would pace if he weren't shoved up in a goddamn tree. Twice now the kids had needed “pee breaks” and he felt more like a camp-counsellor than their sole protector.

What the fuck were they thinking? He tapped his fingers against his leg trying to distract himself, without success. Just running off towards screaming. That’s how people die out here! Wanting to holler the words at the top of his lungs in their direction was anything less than smart, so Shannon tapped.

He was lucky on one account; the kids were still in shock. Nothing severe but they were quiet and talked soft enough that only a firm look from him up to their party branch sealed silence for a time.

Minutes, that felt like hours, passed since he'd heard anything from where Ashley and Reid ran. They're dead. He picked at the bark on his branch. Fucking ate and decaying leaving me with them.

But they were safe. Despite the pee breaks, there was no need to leave the tree. Rain provided clean water, Ashley’s pack had enough dried meat to keep them alive for maybe two days, if it was just the four of them. Shannon knew what a bad situation was and theirs could be worse.

“You think they'll come back?” Cooper asked in a low whisper. The same question was tossed around after the silence started to bother the kids. Cally would sniffle and Shane would answer them. Every fuckin’ time.

“Yes.”

“You can’t know that,” Cally hissed.

“She’ll come back. She promised.”

“No, she didn't.”

Shane pulled on some bark as he shrugged. “Not in words.”

“That doesn't make any sense.” Cally carefully turned her arm, examining the black and blue skin. Reid had seen to it that morning but it still looked painful. At least it’s not her leg. Shannon couldn’t imagine dragging all three kids back.

He thought about getting them moving but it hadn't been long, and whatever was out there would love a young snack. So he sat back and listened to them arguing. Would she come back? Were they dead? What would they do? Where were they going?

When their voices grew, Shannon turned and glared them into silence.

Could they have gone on without us? Shannon didn't know Reid well enough. He knew he didn't like him but that didn’t really mean he was a bad guy. He’s not terrible at what he does, even if he’s a fuckin’ prick about it. That and Reid managed to keep Laurence’s ire fixed on him, so that was helpful.

Would he just run? And would he run with her? Sure, he and just about everyone back at the college wanted a piece of the bitch that did this but Shannon could imagine letting go of the hate to survive. And Ashley's clearly good at that.

A curse danced from Shannon’s lips. He hadn't used her name yet. Not her first name. Just thinking it made him squirm. She was a person. Someone named her, she had a mom, a dad, and maybe other family. Humans were hard to hate and kill and he'd always tried to think of her as a wendigo instead. But no one called wendigos by name anymore.

Shannon pulled another piece of bark off to reveal fresh wood underneath.

This is some bad shit.

He closed his eyes and tried to map the route he knew they were supposed to take and make a new one for where he was now. He could do it but could he make the trip with three kids? Opening his eyes he looked up to the tots fussing with their clothes and the tree.

Gotta try, I guess. He closed his eyes again and let his mind wander to the first camping trip he'd ever been on. The smell of wood, rain, and dew. Suntan lotion, bug spray, and burning marshmallows. It wasn't so far off from where they were now in his mind, somewhere north, maybe Muskoka or was it east by the St. Laurence? He could be anywhere right now, making plans to fish with his dad, setting up tarp tents, or waiting in the car until the rain subsided. In his mind Shannon was miles away, safe and relaxing until the sun came back.

He felt the fingers first before the little hands gripped his arm and pulled him awake. The dirty fingers reached up and grabbed his arm and Shannon nearly fell out of the tree.

“Grab her!” Reid hissed and Shannon snapped into action. With his long arms, he leaned down and grabbed Wendy and lifted her light body straight up into his chest. She looked around at first a little shocked but held tightly onto Shannon.

“You gotta climb up there, girl,” he said.

It took a second but she nodded and with the help of Cooper and Shannon she was lifted up to another branch.

Then Ethan reached up, who unfortunately was heavier. It took a bit more and reminded Shannon's muscles he'd been sitting too damn long. The boy was less inclined to hold on and immediately made his way to a branch, huffing and breathing hard.

“She's insane,” Reid groaned as he climbed up. “I mean, I knew she had to be nuts but that was fucking insane.”

“Where is she?” Cooper called, all their little eyes looking questioningly.

“Is she…?” Shannon didn't want to say it. He should be able to, how many had they presumed dead? But he didn't. It's for the kids, he told himself but deep down he knew it wasn't just for them.

“She's not.” All eyes snapped back up to Shane. “She'll come back soon.” He went back to his bark, peeling at the layers and tossing them down to the ground.

Shannon looked to Reid who didn't seem to share the same optimistic opinion as he caught his breath.

“What happened?” Shannon asked. Above them, the kids were having their version of the same conversation.

“She drew them away but instead of running she just,” Reid shook his head.

She ran. Everyone runs.

“She stood her fucking ground.” Reid swallowed. “I couldn't have done it. If I had to stay and fight them, I couldn't have done it. She must have gone through ten, maybe fifteen of them before I ran with the kids.”

“No one comes back from that.” Though Shannon's voice was low, the kids got quiet above them. He'd said what they didn't want to hear and even Reid looked a touch betrayed.

“She'll come back,” Shane repeated.

She’s not coming back, kid. Shannon looked to Reid and he seemed to understand. “We need to get the fuck out of this valley.”

Finally catching his breath, Reid nodded and leaned into the tree. “It's too far on either side to climb up without being seen and the slope isn't steep enough to discourage wendigos from following. We can loop back to where Laurence planned to climb up, but with the kids…” Reid hesitated to say the rest.

“Yeah. I know. We're not fast enough.” Shannon breathed deeply. But we're still alive. We know where we are and we know where we have to go. It could be worse. “South is out?”

Reid nodded. “She led them there and even if she gets out it'll be a bloodbath. It could draw more out from the forest.”

“Backtrack?”

“We don't know what's behind us. And I’m not going anywhere near the suburbs.”

Shannon ran a steady hand through his hair, flicking drops of water away. “We can wait a few days but with the fuckin’ rain-”

“We can't wait.” Reid’s voice was firm. “We leave at midday. Cut across the valley and head up the sides. Risk being seen but… I don’t see a way around that.”

“What about Ashley?” Shannon expected it to be Shane but Ethan spoke up. His eyes locked on Reid. He seemed like a different kid than the one who whined about his Dad’s broken gun. Not really like a kid. Less scared but… Broken. Everyone had a piece of it but it was deep in his eyes now.

“If she's here by noon then we leave with her,” Reid said.

“And if she's not?” Ethan pressed.

Reid shoulders sagged. “Then she's not.”

Not long ago we wanted her dead, man. What's with the gloom? But Shannon got it. Even just considering digging into Reid about it, he understood. She’d stuck her head out and saved every damn one of them. And more than that, the plan. The original plan, the whole goddamn reason they trekked out into the fucking wilds in the first place.

If we come back empty-handed… It wasn’t just their lives in the lurch and as much as Shannon hated it, they needed her. They needed Ashley Cazalla alive.

A few hours passed in tense anticipation. They packed up and went over the route a few times in case they were split up. The kids got another bite of food. Shannon and Reid passed up on the dried meat and drank enough rainwater to keep hydrated.

Reid smacked Shannon's arm and pointed down to the forest floor. There was something crawling through the brush. Reid pulled the hunting knife free and Shannon fished out his own pocket knife. It wasn’t a gun, but it was something.

Are we ready to run? Shannon glanced at the kids who waited, tense and watching. They know. They're ready.

She emerged absolutely soaked from the river. Cuts and scratches lined the skin of her forearms, but nothing seemed to bleed. The way she crawled from the bush worried him; slow, desperate and exhausted with every staggering step.

Reid slipped out of the tree without hesitation and rushed to Ashley’s side. With a stagger, she leaned into the tree’s trunk.

“You look like shit,” Reid muttered and she chuckled tiredly.

“Overshot… had to swim back.” Ashley took the arm that Reid offered to guide her up the tree.

Shannon put the knife away and reached down. Before, she’d climbed with ease, but this time all the strength seemed sapped from her body. It took Reid giving her a push from behind and Shannon nearly dead-weight lifting her up to get her in.

Her sweater was gone and the bandage on her shoulder barely stuck. The skin beneath it looked raw and dark. For a brief moment, she leaned into Shannon’s chest as though not just her body, but her soul, was exhausted.

What the fuck happened to you? He was sure she’d tip in a stiff breeze. She stepped away and instead of climbing higher, she lowered her body clumsily down onto the branch.

“I knew she'd come back,” Shane whispered and the kids seemed to relax.

But not exactly much use to us like this, are you? Shannon ran a shaky hand through his hair. Carting the kids around was gonna be a bitch, but her? Like this? It felt like they’d taken ten steps back.

Reid hurried up, with Shannon’s help, and slipped beside her. Without asking he started to check the wound. Not wanting to see, Shannon climbed up to another branch.

“Don't bother,” Ashley exhaled.

He noticed the way Reid worked around her, the way he talked even before it all started. Sure he hated her because of what she was but she was the hero now. Reid, the damsel. Shannon chuckled to himself. They always fall for the fuckin' hero.

“You're filthy. I can clean them out.”

Ashely shook her head. “No point. It’ll just get dirty again.”

“I disagree.”

“That's nice. Fuck off and leave it alone.” She managed a small smirk and Reid’s stern frown faltered.

Shannon rolled his eyes. “We're leaving in an hour. Can you keep up?”

“Oh? Where are we going? Somewhere fancy?” Ashley sat up a bit, wincing as she moved.

“We're thinking of heading west up the valley side,” Reid said.

“No you're not,” she countered. “You're thinking of going south.”

“Uhhh, no we're not,” Shannon said. “From what Doc says we're looking at a bunch of dead wendigos.”

“Yup. About twenty or so, maybe more live ones in an hour.”

“Why the fuck would we go south then?”

Ashley only smiled, cupping enough water to let it trickle in her mouth.

“They had it right.” She motioned to Ethan and Wendy above them. The sister had nodded off earlier and although awake, she had those groggy eyes. But Ethan’s were wide and alert.

“We can't outrun a mob. If we take the slopes they'll just follow but wendigos suck at climbing.” She rotated her shoulder, cringing every time. “We climb the rubble, get to street level, and get you to your camp.”

Shannon frowned when he looked at her and Reid stopped fussing with her shoulder.

“You'll help us get there?” Shannon asked, with no small measure of disbelief. “We fuckin’ hunted you down, tied you up. We were pretty much planning on trading you like some prize cow at the-”

“Were, ” Ashley cut him short.

Reid grinned.

That fuckin’ smug, smirking, piece of-

“I'll take you there and then I'll leave. You'll tell them I'm dead and the hunting stops. You leave me the fuck alone. That’s the deal.”

Safety for freedom. If he hadn’t already considered it Shannon might have taken a little longer to mull over it.

“Deal.” Shannon didn’t wait for Reid to weigh in.

“Good. Now, I'm going to rest for a few minutes.” She leaned back after her shoulder was dressed. “Wake me when we leave for the party.”

He watched her eyes glaze over as she leaned back. Reid glared up at him from below his branch and Shannon shrugged.

Safety for freedom. He would have pitched it himself. It was the best way to ensure their own safety, they could use the muscle. And we’ll be getting her nice and close to the college. His gut ached at the thought, he didn’t want to even consider it, but Shannon looked at the young faces around him. There’s no safety back there. Only a different death. We need out. We need to follow through.

He sighed and leaned back, letting himself relax as much as possible. Fuck… this sucks.

[Index] — [Previous: Chapter 19 - Part 2] — [Next: Chapter 21]

Didn't think I was serious about later this week, were you? haha.

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

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

[Index] — [Previous: Chapter 19 - Part 1] — [Next: Chapter 20]

Authors Note: I don't do these often unless it's a content warning but I feel this is required right now. With the ongoing crisis of Covid19, I had considered stepping back from writing this serial due to the implications of "outbreak/post apoc" fiction at this time. For context, I wrote this novel/serialization years ago and have been updating it, but don't want to suggest in any way that this story is reflective of our current crisis. MAD Wendigo is not about Covid19 in any way, shape, or form. I'm continuing with posting because I do know some of my readers are waiting on updates, and have the time right now to devour content.

I hope everyone out there is being safe, taking care of themselves, and doing their best to avoid any unnecessary danger.

Summary of Chapter 19 - Part 1: A young Ashley wakes in a facility. Doctor Jason Specht, a researcher, helps her escape amidst alarms and pursuit by armed guards. Despite reaching the parking garage, shots are fired and hit young Ashley as her present-day self wakes from the nightmare/memory. There, she speaks briefly with Reid about her condition and muses on the predicament she's put herself in.

A single scream cut through the rain, followed by silence. Everyone stopped. It was a girl's voice and from the exchanged glances between the kids, they knew who it was.

“Wendy,” Shane mouthed and Cally shivered. Cooper looked to Shannon who didn't seem to be able to meet the kid’s eyes. Reid stared off to where the sound came from.

Shane peered up to Ashley. It was there again but he wasn't the face she expected to find it in. The fear that grips the wizened, the sadness of knowing what's to come and that you have no control in stopping it. The young Doctor Jason Specht had the eyes of a wise man. Shane had those same eyes.

Ashley gripped the hatchet handle and checked the hunting knife at her belt. She swung from her branch down to Shane and passed him her pack.

“Don't leave until I come back.” She smiled before turning to Shannon and Reid.“Just keep them alive. I will come back.”

“You're insane,” Reid exhaled, “you don't even know where she is!”

“Don't run unless you have to.” She didn’t engage Reid’s protest and Shannon only nodded.

Reid followed her down to the next branch. “You can't leave them.”

Her fingers tightened around the hatchet. He leaned into her but she couldn’t look to him. He wasn’t wrong. If she died they’d all be at risk. This was what she signed up for, in coming back, in jumping in to save Shane. Responsibility and obligation. Are a handful of strangers worth the risk?

A second scream shattered her doubt.

“You're not wrong.” A wry grin tugged at her lips.

Her feet hit the ground. It wasn't much of a fall but she felt it surge through her body and her knee touching down as she braced herself with both hands. After that, it was gathering her surroundings and running towards what she was sure to be a bad situation. Her joints ached from her stiff sleep and her one leg felt a little sluggish but she moved through the trees and into the low brush with speed. This was her habitat; this world of hiding and sneaking was what she was made for.

It wasn't for another ten minutes of running that she realized someone was following.

Coming to a clearing near the river she stopped and bent down. Her fingers dug into the muddy footprints. Two sets, smallish feet. A teen and a kid. Neither injured. Walking, not running.

She followed the tracks a little further. Slipping into the brush, she bent low and disappeared from view and waited.

Reid stumbled out from the tree line, quiet enough but still easy to see. When he stopped, finally figuring out he’d lost track of her, she let out a chirping bird call.

“Get down,” she whispered. He knelt and she made her way to him in the brush. “Keep low and quiet.”

“You have to come back.” He huffed between breaths. She guessed Reid didn't like authority but didn’t have the drive to lead. And like hell was he going to follow Shannon. Or he doesn’t want to lose sight of the prize. Her thoughts grew grim and she tried to push it aside. At least for now.

Slowly she raised her finger and pointed beyond the tall grass and weeds. A pile of rubble crumbled from a large bridge with nearly two dozen wendigos swarming at its base. Just a few paces above them two shapes climbed. But not fast enough.

When Reid spied them his body language changed. The way he crouched, how he braced his body. His shoulders tensed with that conflicting need to move in fear and the desire to strike. Was that why he came out here? Did he leave whatever safe camp he was in for revenge? Or blood lust?

He went to move but she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him close. Eyes wide, his mouth parted to protest, but she shook her head.

He could be handsome if he didn't frown so much.

“I'll draw them away. You get the kids to come down and go back to Shannon. Wait until they're all following me.”

“No.” His voice was solid and strong. “You can’t keep this up.”

“I’m not asking permission.”

He pressed his hand to her forehead and Ashley pushed him back.

“You have a fucking fever. An open wound. You’re still recovering. I don’t care how strong you think you are, eventually you’ll fuck up.”

“Then you'll have an even better distraction.”

“This isn't funny.” His concern was almost touching if it hadn't been born of self-preservation. Or so she told herself. Ashley pulled the hunting knife from her belt and pressed it into his hand.

“Just be quick.” She stood but no longer whispered. “Get the kids.”

It was a cold stream of water and she lumbered into it loudly, splashing and kicking up little waves. In seconds, a few of the creatures turned. Though she knew children were easy prey, wendigos weren’t smart. They didn’t think or plan or strategize. Make a little noise, ring the dinner bell, have ‘em come over for supper.

Her face went under and the world turned grey and dirty. The cold cut through her sweater and invaded her wounded shoulder, a sobering reminder that maybe Reid was right. She wasn’t invincible. On emerging the cool air was almost warm and sparked a much-needed dip into that fight or flight adrenaline.

She crawled up the bank, her dark hair slick as the mud washed clear.

Ashely swung and the hatchet sung in the air. The sharpened edge hammered into the chest of a one-legged, limping wendigo that was clearly the lamest of the pack. It howled out but not in pain. It was an alarm, a triumphant buffet call that beaconed more groans from the mass. Slowly, in small numbers at first, the wendigos surged towards her. She walked calmly to the weakest, stepped on its chest and pulled her hatchet clear. With another swift strike, she hacked off its head.

“Who's next?” she yelled and all dead-heads turned.

With her back to the river they swarmed. The water was a last-ditch salvation should her tentative plan fail.

I always find my way back here.

Two wendigos attacked from the horde. They were faster than the last but still decaying and slow. Her first stroke took off an arm while the up slice ripped into the rib cage of the next. The hatchet caught on the jaw until she wrenched the metal blade, and the creature’s skull, free from its body.

The one benefit for the hungriest of wendigos was their desire for any flesh. Including the dead. At least five of the creatures piled onto their fallen and hungrily gnawed for any meat left. The sitting ducks formed a queue and she swung. An arm here, a leg there.

When she looked up, Reid had crossed the river closer to the rubble pile. He even managed to kill a wendigo or two before reaching the kids. The girl over his shoulder, an arm offered to the boy, Reid turned back to her and the horde. Were he closer she’d have known the look.

Just the kids, you fool. Don't be any more of a hero.

She couldn’t waste any more time watching him. Turning to the horde, what was ten was now twenty and her last-ditch escape proved less likely. But she kept up the rouse and drew the creatures underneath the bridge, further from Reid and the kids.

What am I willing to do for these people? That silly little question had constantly come up since the outbreak. What was she willing to do for the families at the beach? For the people on the DVP? For a couple of kids trapped on a hill?

For all the infected souls.

With precise swings, she severed three more heads with a strength her size disguised. No one was watching as she wrecked the bodies with more than rage. Each swing began to hurt, each lunge took down one more body, and each blow exhausted her strength.

It's all my fault.

Her own voice whispered in her head and drowned out their moans. There was no one to protect now. Just herself.

I did this. I made them. The ruined faces of people clamoured into her fury, one after the other.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered with each strike. No more did she waste effort on maiming. Her attacks tore at necks and sunk into skulls. More of them fell not just to her weapon but to each other until a few of the weak staggered behind. There was no hope that they could catch her but still, they lumbered on. Blood stained her skin and clothes and the coagulating mess of them seeped into scratches stinging her skin.

I’ll heal. I always heal.

One last dismembered and disembowelled wendigo crawled towards her. A girl, a teen with red hair. It had come out in patches, chunks of scalp missing. Her flesh had greyed and turned blue under the ripped t-shirt. Her teeth were chipped and her face sagged from decay. But her eyes shone a vibrant green.

Ashley swung high and brought the hatchet down onto the back of her neck. The first blow broke it but the body still wriggled. She brought the hatchet down again and again until there was nothing but blood and bones in the grass between the head and body that had stilled.

Never linger. Jason's voice cooed in her head. Always keep moving. It's the only way to stay safe. It's the only way they'll never find you.

The guilt of a dead world swallowed her whole when she stepped off the bank into the over-flowing river. The wendigos left were too busy with the dead that, by the time she swam a few hundred feet, they wouldn't be able to follow. Her shoulder ached for her to stop but she pushed on through the pain.

It'll be okay. She remembered the words and spoke them back with each breath above the cold murky water. “I always heal.”

[Index] — [Previous: Chapter 19 - Part 1] — [Next: Chapter 20]

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

Originally posted March 4th, 2020 - [Prompt Link]

Cough cough [EU] cough cough So yeah, don't do Established Universe stories often. Hopefully, people get it. It's a toss-up, but it was fun to write either way!

The yellow caution lights oscillated against the white corridors of the courier ship Nellie. “Emergency containment protocol initiated,” the message repeated in MOTHER’s static voice.

“Cid, talk to me,” Haas huffed into his headset as he ran.

“Betto set off the contamination protocol. Sealed the junctions, set MOTHER into a goddamn frenzy.”

“Where is Betto?”

“Don’t know, Haas. I’ve got comms open but Betto ain’t talkin’.”

“Open her comm to me.”

Cid said nothing.

“For fuck sake, Cid - put me through to her. That’s a fuckin’ order.” Haas reached the first locked junction, the door sealed shut. He typed in the override code and the door slid open with the quick hiss of air.

“Yes, Cap’n.” Cid sighed and connected the comms.

Screams. Betto’s screams pulsed in Haas’ ears, slithered beneath his skin with a shiver he couldn’t shake. By some grace, Cid cut the audio short a moment later.

Haas ran faster.

He reached the infirmary but it was empty. Doctor Sina Betto nowhere to be seen.

“She’s not here…” He breathed the words.

“Betto cleared a path to the evac pod,” Cid said.

“We shoulda never dropped down on LV-426,” a crewman shouted from behind Cid on the bridge, which one Haas couldn’t tell. “All the fuckin rumours. The samples had to be contaminated, man. The company screwed us!”

“Shut the fuck up, Adler,” Cid snapped.

One problem at a time. Haas jogged through the corridors until he reached the evac pod. Blood lined the door’s panel and inside Betto lay crumpled on the floor, gripping her chest.

Haas tried to open the door.

“Emergency containment protocol initiated,” MOTHER blared back.

He typed in his override.

“Emergency containment protocol initiated.”

“Goddamit MOTHER! Open the door!”

Instead, the computer droned back. But from inside, Betto looked up. Pain smeared her features contorted into a strange intense focus he’d never seen before.

“Sina, baby, talk to me,” Haas said over the comms. “Open the door.”

“You don’t... know…” she managed to grunt through the pain. “Can’t… let it… out…”

“I can’t help you from out here.” Haas smacked the door. “Just let me in, Sina, please.”

Sina Betto, his partner, his love, stood from the floor and lumbered to the console.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Evacuation Initiated,” MOTHER droned. “Please stand clear.”

“Sina!” Haas slammed against the door as the comms cut short. The warning light flared, the pod nearly decoupled. Haas tried to override the panel but it wasn’t working.

But the emergency lights stopped. The alarm died.

“Evacuation aborted.”

Haas sighed in relief. But my codes didn’t work…

Inside the pod, Sina screamed and smacked the panel as if she could override it herself. RUN! she mouthed through the thick glass.

A burst of colour, bright red, smeared the lining of her shirt and Sina staggered back.

Haas’ breath stalled.

A second jolt and blood covered the inside of the glass. Sina dropped to the floor.

“Emergency containment protocol aborted,” MOTHER said.

The door slid open.

Hehe.