Winter’s Child – Introduction

There’s a bit of a funny story that goes with this tale. I might have mentioned that this is one of my earliest story ideas. But you also know I have a penchant for saving everything, so it only took a couple of tries checking out various USB sticks to find the folder with the files I was looking for.

I copied the folder onto my desktop and opened one of the document files, and it was only a page long so I closed it and opened another. This one was accompanied by a window asking me what I wanted to open it up with. I picked Wordpad, thinking it’s pretty universal, and while it did open the document, most of it was gibberish.

This wasn’t good. So I closed it again and tried a different one, and this time when the window popped up I picked PDF. And . . . got a message that it couldn’t open the file because it was corrupted. Then I saw that most of the files in that folder now had the PDF extension on them. This was really not good.

I clicked out of the folder and went back to the USB stick. Suddenly all of the files labelled PDF on the computer are PDF on the stick too. Really, really not good.

Crossing my fingers, I went back to my office and fired up my other, older computer, found a different USB stick with the files I needed, and tried that one. The files opened without any problem.

Here’s what I think happened. When I first started writing I used Corel WordPerfect, so the early versions of the story were saved in that. My newer laptop has a much newer version of Microsoft Word, so it could neither recognize nor convert these old WP files. I’m pretty sure I’d updated them since my days of using WordPerfect 5.1, but I could be wrong.

Whatever. The point is, problem solved. I saved the files I needed as Word files and they open up no problem on the newer computer. Whew! Now the only problem is sorting through the various versions. Apparently every time I made a change, no matter how insignificant, I’d save both the old version and the new version. So many redundant files . . . *shudder*.

I believe I also mentioned that this new story was based on an old poem of mine. Confession time. This poem was written in high school, before I knew jack about poetry. The assignment was to pick an article from a stack of newspapers the teacher had, and write poem about it. The article I chose was about a child lost in the snow. I know, I was weird even back then.

Anyway, we’ll start with the poem, and then on to the prologue of the story.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

THE FRIENDS

He had been gone
since early morning
leaving behind:
a mother
in hysterics
a father
who suffered ulcers
and siblings who
seem always
to find fault.
His friend had been
inviting him
since early fall;
so he went exploring
Winter.
His friend showed him ice
and frost pictures
and finally
she embraced him
and Winter
enticed him
to sleep.


Prologue

When settlers first came to the forest-covered foothills of the mountain, they were completely unaware of the Others who dwelt there. They cleared small plots of land and built their log cabins; they put up split-rail fences and called the land theirs. By the time the Others were aware of the intrusion, they were powerless to stop it.

The fact that humans had encroached on their territory took them by complete surprise, they weren’t sure how to react. Before this, humans had been considered a lower life-form. So the last remnants of the Others remained elusive, hidden, and gauged these newcomers carefully.

When their race was young, the territory of the Others encompassed an entire continent. They had no name and needed none, for their very existence set them apart from the other lifeforms. Though they never developed technology as we know it, they were a highly civilized, intelligent society.

Their ancestors roamed the land with the great lumbering dinosaurs, watched the soaring flight of the pterodactyl with envy, and witnessed the killing frenzy of the carnivores with revulsion. By nature they were a gentle, pleasure seeking race who had reached their peak and begun a slow, inevitable degeneration. Yet still, when the ice age came and the lesser beasts began dying out, they still had the creative spark to seek out ways to survive.

But the colder it became, the more of their race died. Their attempts to halt or change the weather were fruitless and they soon abandoned ideas along those lines. Their calculations proved they could not outlast the cold should it come to either building well stocked shelters against it or even hibernation. Relocating was pointless as well.

And so it fell to a small group of knowledge-seekers who had always kept apart with their rituals and experiments. By human standards they would be considered scientists, or at the very least alchemists, though their research would not be understood by the human mind.

They had seen they signs of impending disaster long ago and they knew that the others would fail. There was only one thing that could save them, they must adapt to the cold. They must change themselves. And so began the Great Transformation.

Not all were able to survive the Great Transformation. They very young, the infirm, the very old (and they were already a long-lived race), all of these were left to die in the encroaching cold. They died knowing their race would survive, though it was doubtful this gave them any comfort.

The transformed welcomed the ice age. They reveled in the cold that enveloped their land. The change had taken them from creatures of sun and warmth to creatures of ice and cold. But the price! Of the race who numbered well into the millions, only a few thousand remained.

They were tall and thin with pale, pale skin, long narrow limbs and hair of gossamer. Their metabolism adapted to their needs. The cold no longer mattered to them. The earth had changed, and they changed with it.

The ice lasted for thousands of years, but suddenly, the ice was spent. It began to recede, heralding a new era for the world. The race that the Others became lacked even the rudimentary knowledge to fight the changes now taking place. They had truly become children of the ice and snow.

As the ice receded, so did their territory. A few hundred years more and they staked claim to the mountains, the higher the better. And there they stayed, fear keeping them close to their territory – fear of being caught too far from their cold of the mountain when the thaw came.

Wild Rose

No, this is not the new serial. I’m still having trouble with it, but I did promise to have something up for today, so this is it. This little story was written from a prompt, and it was pared down from a longer version that I believe had a romantic twist to it. This is the shorter, creepier version. :-)

Wild Rose

Lanie sat at her desk staring at the manila envelope in front of her. She promised her friend Cass she’d at least look at the contents. Never mind the fact that Cass was convinced Lanie’s fixer upper of a Victorian house was cursed, a promise was a promise.

With a sigh she dumped the contents onto her desk. It was a mixture of newspaper clippings and photo copies of newspaper clippings. Some of them had stick notes attached to them, others had highlights and notes. One of them had “Original Owner” printed across it in bright pink ink.

Despite herself, Lanie was intrigued. The original owner of this house was a widow who was accused of murdering seven people. The bodies were found buried in the garden. But the intriguing part was the side article that accused Rose Wildman of being a witch.

“She has the ability to possess a person and force them to enact all manner of evil deeds,” she read. “She should be burned at the stake, just like the witches of old.”

There were several articles of that ilk, from accusing Rose of creating potions and poisons from the herbs she grew, to singing My Wild Irish Rose as she disemboweled her victims. Another article attributed her powers to a large ruby pendent Rose wore, which mysteriously disappeared upon her death.

Lanie sat back with a snort. “What a bunch of superstitious twaddle,” she said. She loved Cass like a sister but sometimes her penchant for the supernatural was downright annoying.

The articles and envelope went into the trash can and Lanie buckled down to work. She wrote historical romance, and did well enough that she was able to buy the house outright. It was the kind of home she’d always dreamed of owning, a Victorian with a wrought iron fence around it and a large garden out back.

After working steadily for two hours, Lanie sat back in her chair and stretched. The writing was going well for a change, she gotten a lot accomplished. The virgin bride was in a coach headed for Scotland and was about to meet up with the laird disguised as a highway man. It was a good place to leave it for now - she needed a break.

Padding out to the kitchen, she made herself a cup of tea and carried it into the living room, formerly the front parlour, and sat in the wing back chair near the fireplace. This room was next on her list. She’d already pulled the panelling that went halfway up the wall off and was ready to start on the crown molding. Once it was all off she could start stripping the wall paper.

Setting her empty cup on the mantle, Lanie pulled the step ladder over to the corner of the room and picked up the wonderbar. The crown molding came off easier than she expected and she made good progress. As she repositioned the ladder next to the fireplace, it knocked against the brick and some of the mortar fell off.

“Damn it!”

Lanie ran her hand over the brick, feeling for damage. One of the bricks was definitely loose. Frowning, she gave it an experimental wiggle.

“Either I hit this harder than I thought, or this brick was already loose,” she muttered. “I think there’s something behind here.”

Carefully she worked the brick out then reached into the hole, pulling out a small leather pouch. Excitedly she opened it and a pendant dropped into her hand. It was gold filigree, set with a large red stone.

“It’s beautiful!” Lanie said breathlessly. It must have been the pendant belonging to Rose Wildman that was mentioned in the article. “No wonder she hid it.”

On impulse, she slipped the chain over her head and went over to the mirror. The stone rested just where her cleavage started. As she stared at it in the mirror it seemed to pulse with light. Raising her gaze, she stared into her eyes and gasped. It was as though someone else was staring back. Lanie did something then that she’d never done before in her life. She fainted.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Hours later she awoke, groaning as she pushed herself up off the floor. Brushing off her clothes she glanced in the mirror again and smirked.

“You look beautiful, darling, and that pendant was just made for you.”

With a laugh she turned and went into the kitchen, picking up the cell phone to scroll through the contact list for the right number.

“Cass? You were right. There is something strange about this house.”

“I knew it!”

“Do you think...” Lanie gulped. “Do you think you could come over and help me pack? I—I really don’t want to be alone.”

“I’ll be right there,” Cass assured her.

A smile curved Lanie’s lips as she hung up the phone. Only seven bodies were found? Obviously they never thought to check the dirt floor of the basement. She flexed her fingers, a red glint in her eyes as she checked out the knives in the butcher block. Oh, she was going to have fun this evening. It had been too long!

As she waited for Lanie’s friend to arrive, she began to hum My Wild Irish Rose.

The Cave

Well… this was kind of interesting. Originally I was going to take a look at the resulting pieces for my three minute word exercises and pick one to turn into my weekly flash story. But a couple of days in, I thought why not kill two birds with one stone and use each day’s word to create a continuous flash story?

So each day I kept the story going, and what you see below is the result of seven days worth of exercises. The words I used were picked at random from The Family Word Finder, published by Reader’s Digest, about 40 years ago. I’ve bolded them in my story so you know which ones I used.

Now the question is, do I leave the story as it is, or do I keep going?

They took a break at mid-day, sitting on a tumble of boulders, drinking from their water bottles.

“I have to admit, Eve, this was a great idea.”

“I knew once I got you out here you’d love it. It’s the best of both worlds, hiking and rock climbing.”

“And the rock climbing is easy enough that even a klutz like me can manage it.” Sara said with a chuckle. She motioned with her water bottle. “What’s that over there?”

Eve turned to look. “Looks like a fissure in the rocks, it might even lead to a cavern,” she said with growing excitement. “Hey, Sara, ever try spelunking?”

“Wow,” Sara said when they crawled through the fissure to the cave. “It looks like a giant lives here.”

The cave was enormous, a fact that wasn’t made clear until Eve turned on her torch. The light didn’t reach the edges, but cut in a wide swath through the dark as they moved around. Sara flicked her torch on as well and they moved in opposite directions, parallel to the entrance, to try and give an estimate of the size.

The cave definitely earned the name cavern. Eve figured her whole house could fit inside, with room for parking.

“Hey, Eve, come check this out,” Sara called.

Eve crossed the immense chamber to her. “What is it?”

Sara held her lantern up. “Look!”

Eve sucked in a breath of astonishment. The wall of the cave was filled with primitive art work. “This is amazing,” she whispered. Unable to resist, she reached out to touch the smooth surface of the wall. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s the find of the century,” Sara said with satisfaction. “And we’ll get the credit for finding it.”

“We need to search this entire cave,” Eve said.

“I agree. I can’t believe no one ever stumbled on this place before,” Sara said.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Eve said as they made a slow circuit of the chamber. “This trail is kind of off the beat track, away from the main trails. And do you remember the earthquake we had a couple of weeks ago?”

Sara frowned. “But that was just a teeny tiny one, hardly noticeable.”

“But maybe just enough to open the fissure, leaving the rest of the cave intact.”

“How far back do you think it goes?” Sara asked.

“I don’t know,” Eve replied, holding up her battery operated torch to help dispel the gloom. “I’d heard this area is riddled with caves, I’ve just never seen any. And I certainly never heard any rumors about cave paintings.”

Sara turned and began to trace lightly over the primitive drawings. “I wonder how old they are.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine,” Eve said, coming closer to the wall again. She frowned. “Maybe not as old as we think.”

“What do you mean?” Sara asked.

“Well, look at this pigment. It’s hardly faded at all.”

Sara frowned and looked closer. “I don’t know much about the preservation of art,” she admitted. “But wouldn’t the fact it’s been seal up help preserve it?”

“Maybe.”

In a mood as changeable as the weather, Eve grinned again. “But even if it’s a fake, it’s an amazing one. And maybe it’s not millions of years old, but it’s a good bet it’ll still be at least hundreds. We’ll still be famous.”

Eve’s good humor was infectious and Sara couldn’t help but laugh. “C’mon, let’s keep exploring. Maybe there’s more paintings, or even artifacts.”

The two women made their way cautiously along the wall to the back of the cave. It grew smaller the further they went, but it was still roomy.

The walls were rough and the floor was hard packed earth.

“Shouldn’t there be stalactites or stalagmites or something?” Sara asked.

“Not necessarily,” Eve said. “I’m pretty sure you only them in cave where there’s water. This seems pretty dry to me.”

Suddenly, the ground shifted and there was a rumbling noise. Sara and Eve looked at each other in shock.

“Run!” Eve shouted.

They raced back to the fissure, arriving in time to see rocks slam down to fill it completely.

As the two women stood frozen in place, the rumbling stopped and the cloud of dust the falling rocks created began to settle.

“We’re screwed, aren’t we?” Sara asked quietly.

Eve hesitated. “Probably,” she admitted.

“Well, you know what they say about curiosity. Curiosity killed the cat. Looks like we’re a couple of cats who didn’t have sense enough to stay out of strange fissures.”

“Sara…” Eve reached out to touch her arm.

“Don’t!” Sara said, jerking her arm away. “Don’t try and comfort me.”

“Don’t be like that,” Eve said, unable to wholly give up hope. “We just barely scratched the surface of how far back this cavern goes. For all we know, another fissure might have opened up. We need to keep exploring.”

The Christmas Gift

Margaret stood outside her sister’s door, taking a moment to admire the festive wreath on the door. Lizzie’s work, no doubt. Grace wouldn’t have thought of it herself, having spent years of George not liking a fuss at Christmas. But George had been gone for five years now, and it was nice to see a glimpse of the old Grace again. It made what she was about to do a little easier.

Gathering up her courage, she rapped briskly on the door. It only took a moment before it opened.

“Hello, Lizzie.” Lizzie was her twenty year old niece. “I hope I’m not interrupting, but I need to speak with your mother.”

“Mom and I were doing some Christmas decorating but we’ve stopped for a hot chocolate break. Come in and join us.”

Lizzie held the door open a little wider and Margaret stepped through, then followed the younger woman to the kitchen.

“Margaret,” Grace said, turning from the stove. “What a pleasant surprise.” She peered a little more closely at her sister. “You’re looking a little peeked. Is everything thing all right?”

“I—” Margaret stopped, then started again. “No, not really. I’ve something that’s been weighing on me for a number of years, and I need to get it off my chest.”

“I think I’ll run down to the store to get the butter for the shortbread,” Lizzie said, slipping out the door.

“Why don’t you sit down, Margaret.”

“I think I’d be better standing.” Margaret laid the manilla envelope she’d been carrying, on the table between them. “These belong to you. I’ve kept them all these years, and I’d no right to. I … I thought I was doing the right thing, that you’d be better off with George. By the time I realized it wasn’t my decision to make, it was too late.”

“Margaret, whatever are you talking about? What’s in the envelope?” Concerned, Grace reached out to her sister, but Margaret pulled back.

Tears in her eyes, Margaret said, “They’re letters from Liam. The first one came just before you married George. I—I—I’m sorry.”

Unable to face the shocked look on her sister’s face, Margaret turned and fled.


Grace sank slowly onto one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table, staring at the envelope as though it were a snake about to bite her. There wasn’t a day gone by in the last twenty years that she hadn’t thought about Liam McKenzie. She was still lost in thought when Lizzie returned with the butter.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Grace said. How many times had she wondered how things would have been different if she and Liam hadn’t quarrelled? How many times had she wished she’d swallowed her pride and gone to him? Too many to count.

Lizzie sat down opposite her. “What’s this?” She indicated the envelope.

“It’s … mail from a friend. It’s been coming to Margaret’s house and she saved it for me.”

“To Margaret’s house, why would it go there?”

Grace smiled faintly. “Because it used to be my house too. But that was a long time ago.”

“Well, aren’t you going to at least open it?”

“I don’t know if I should or not. I’m a little afraid of stirring up the past.” With a shake of her head, Grace pushed back from the table. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry. What do you say to ordering Chinese take-out for dinner?” She looked at her daughter earnestly, silently begging her to let the matter drop.

“Chinese would be great,” Lizzie said, letting the matter drop. At least for now.


The unsealed envelope was on the little roll top desk in the front parlour when Lizzie came downstairs in the morning. Unable to get the look on her mother’s face as she stared at it out of her mind, she tipped the contents onto the desk. There were more than a dozen smaller sealed envelopes.

Frowning, she put them in order by date. There were fifteen of them, one a year for fifteen years starting twenty years ago. The postmarks for the first five years were the same, but after that it was a different country each time, like the person started travelling. The sender’s name was Liam McKenzie. The wheels started turning in Lizzie’s brain.

She’d been looking for the perfect Christmas present for her mother, what could be more perfect than a man who’d cared enough to try and stay in touch. She put all but the last letter back in the envelope and left it as she found it on the desk. Then, calling up to her mother that she was running an errand, she headed for the library.

Lizzie had always enjoyed research, and by the end of the day she knew all kinds of things about Liam McKenzie. He had a degree in Engineering, which accounted for the first five letters being all sent from the same place, and then he’d joined the army. Five years ago he’d been wounded and ended up with a medical discharge. And one year ago, he’d moved back to this city.

It was meant to be. Now she just needed to find a way to bring them together. Of course that was assuming he was still interested.

“Well,” she said, standing up, “There’s only one way to find out.”


It was Christmas Eve and Lizzie and her mother were enjoying a quiet evening at home.

“Mom, I have a confession to make,” Lizzie said.

“Nothing too serious I hope,” Grace said with a smile.

Lizzie took a deep breath, but before she could speak there was a knock on the door.

“Whoever could that be?”

“It’s your Christmas present,” Lizzie said. “I hope you like it. Stay right here, I’ll get it.”

When she returned leading Liam McKenzie, she didn’t need to say anything. Her mother rose to her feet, one hand pressed to her heart and the look on her face was anything but displeased.

“Liam!”

“Gracie, you haven’t aged a day.”

Lizzie grinned. Her mother seemed to like her Christmas gift just fine.

Photos

The plan going forward was to do a five to ten minute freewriting session to start each day, and then use the best of them here, for my Fiction Fridays. Obviously that didn’t happen. So instead you’re getting NaNo story #29.

Prompt: You get back to your studio to develop pictures from the hour you just spent in the park. All of the pictures turn out well, except for a select few. In six photographs, there is a man in the frame. Something seems slightly off, and rather strange about each picture. Who is he and what is weird about the photographs?

I stared down at the proofs I’d just developed and frowned. There was nothing wrong with them, but they weren’t what I wanted. While working as a freelance photographer could be rewarding, it could also be very frustrating.

I cut the power to my light board and sat back with a sigh. Of the twenty-four pictures, probably twenty of them could be used as stock photos. And let’s face it, stock photos were my bread and butter. Taking pictures of the ordinary, the mundane, was big business.

Too bad I couldn’t be content with that. I wanted something spectacular, something different, something that set me apart from the crowd. That’s why I was using a film camera when everyone else was making the switch to digital.

The others can have their photo shop and digital manipulations, I’d stick to my dark room and chemical washes, my light board and enlarger. I enjoyed the hands on process of developing the film, transferring the photos to the paper in the chemical bath, hanging them on a line to dry. It was fulfilling in a way digital couldn’t hope to be.

With digital you can take as many pictures as you want, without having to worry about wasting film. Or worse, running out of it. The processing is all done electronically. No worries about making sure the developer did its job correctly, no fear of the chemicals becoming tainted and ruining a roll of film. Digital pictures can be manipulated and tweeked online. There was no art to it. No soul.

I made myself a sandwich, one of the perks of working at home, and sat on the couch to think while I ate. When I was a kid, I was fascinated by the pictures in the National Geographic magazine my father subscribed to. I loved the pictures. The city streets that showed the light and movement, a slice of life in the fast lane. The sweeping panoramic swath of a desert, the sand shifting in the wind that swept across the top of the dunes.

Then there was the shot of a redwood, taken from the ground and looking up into the canopy, the sun dappling through the leaves. The tropical rainforests with its denizens lurking within. The full page of a snarling tiger with its fierce eyes and aggressive attitude. The shots of the stars filling a night sky, the moon so bright.

But my favorite pictures were those of the people. The child on the tundra, sleeping with its head resting against a caribou. The face of the coal miner, streaked black with coal dust. The old woman on the Isle of Skye, hanging out her laundry in a brisk wind. The smiling, coffee skinned girl, shyly offering a handful of hand made jewelry. The sheik looking out of place in a high rise office.

My childhood dream had been to become a great photographer and go to work for National Geographic. My first camera was a simple point and click I received for Christmas one year. Every penny of my allowance went to film and film processing. When I started high school I was given my first standard reflex lens camera, a Nikon that became my prized possession. I joined the camera club and learned how to develop film. I got a part time job in a department store photo department.

I took chemistry in high school to better understand the developing process of my films. And then I won a scholarship so I could pursue my dream to become a professional photography. I learned about F-stops and spectrums and shutter speeds. I learned theory and composition. I learned about what settings to use for which situations. But the one thing I didn’t learn, was my niche.

This was getting me no where. I got up and brushed the crumbs away. Maybe I’d try my luck at that park near the cemetery. The park was small, but picturesque, and it attracted a variety of people. I’d take a handful of release forms, just in case.

I started with some general shots – the fountain, the dark space in the trees where the path along the river started, the playground, currently empty. I found a cluster of daffodils and took close-ups of them from many different angles. Flowers were always a big seller.

I spent over an hour at the park. I felt like I got a few good shots, but not the shot I was looking for. I was discouraged enough that I waited until the following day before developing the film. I put the negatives up on my light board and used the magnifying glass to look at each shot in turn.

As stock photos went, most of them were perfect. The daffodils in particular stood out for me. I’d have no problem at all selling them. I looked at the ones of the fountain and frowned. Most of them were fine, but two of them had some kind of white smudge on them. I didn’t think it was a glare from the sun, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I found the same kind of smudge on a couple of shots of the entrance to the path, and on the playground. Very strange.

I wasn’t able to make out much detail with just the magnifying glass, so I took the film to my dark room for printing. For now, I only printed the six pictures with the smudge on them. I wanted a chance to examine them more closely.

While I waited for the prints to dry, I tried to think of what that smudge might be. A wisp of smoke? But then why didn’t it show up in the rest of the pictures, and how was it the same in all six pictures with their different locations? That reasoning ruled out a glare of sunlight as well. Sunlight would have looked different in the different places. And I doubted very much it was a fault in the lens. The rest of the pictures were clear.

The timer went off and I picked up the prints and took them out to where the light was better. The smudges were more distinct, vaguely man shaped. I stared at them in astonishment. They looked . . . for all the world they looked like ghosts.

I sat back and thought about this. I didn’t understand it, but it was what I called a happy accident. Maybe it was the proximity to the cemetery that caused this phenomenon. What if I’d actually taken pictures of real ghosts?

Next time, I’d go to the cemetery itself. Maybe I’ve found my niche at last.

Vampire

This was actually Story #2 from my NaNo adventure and in the process of editing I cut about a thousand words from it. I may redo this story at a later time and add back in some more relevant details, but the words I cut were pretty superfluous.

Prompt: Go over to your bookshelf, close your eyes, and pick up the first book you touch. Open the book to a random page, read the first full sentence on that page, and use it as the inspiration for a story or scene. Please include the original line at the beginning or end of your response. The book I touched was an anthology by Somerset Maugham, and the sentence comes from the story, The Death of Ivan Ilych.

While she was kissing him he hated her from the bottom of his soul and with difficulty refrained from pushing her away. But he had a job to do, and pretending he cared for her was part of it. He poured himself into the kiss when what he really wanted to do was sanitize his whole body, from the inside out.

“There now, darling. That should hold me until I get back.” She ran a hand suggestively down his body and he hoped she took his shiver for excitement, not revulsion.

With a swirl of her cloying perfume, she was gone, leaving him alone in the opulent sitting room. Sighing with relief, he went over to stare into the fire that he’d laid in the fireplace not two hours earlier. It was still burning well, but he stabbed at it with the poker anyway, imagining he was stabbing her.

Knowing he was being watched, he sighed again and strove to look sad that she’d left him alone. Going over to the drink cart, he poured himself a shot of twenty-year-old Scotch whiskey – one of the few perks of the job. Tossing it back, he enjoyed the burn on its way down and then poured another.

Taking his time with the second drink, he wandered over to the French doors and looked out at the estate gardens. A flash of something in the tree line caught his eye. He frowned as the flash repeated. Sipping his drink, he opened the French doors and stepped nonchalantly through.

He worked his way casually in the general direction of the flash. A bend in the path and he was out of sight of the house, but not of the watchers. He knew there were cameras in the woods too. Whoever was out here was playing a dangerous game, for both of them.

“Has she tasted you yet?” a voice whispered from the underbrush.

He paused, as though taking a rest, and answered quietly, with the minimal amount of movement of his lips. “Yes, just a taste though. She seems distracted.”

“No, she’s just taking her time. Pretend to tie your shoe,” the voice ordered. “Set your drink down beside this tree so you can use both hands.”

He did as he was instructed, taking his time as he fumbled with his shoe. It didn’t surprise him in the least when the liquid in his drink jostled, then stilled again.

“The serum’s perfected?” he asked under his breath.

“Yes. Bon appetite.”

He rose, bringing his drink with him, and casually circled back towards the house. Pausing in the rose garden, he tossed back the rest of his drink, managing to keep his face expressionless despite the bitter taste the serum imparted. A hint of a smile hovered over his lips as he felt it coursing through his system. It was only a matter of time now.

He could feel it changing his blood to something deadly, and it made him happy. His family had been killed by the queen’s vampires, although she had no idea. Not that she would have cared even if she did, other than the fact she wouldn’t have trusted him enough to get close to her.

He thought about indulging in another scotch while he waiting for her to return, to bolster his courage for what lay ahead, but he wanted to face her with a clear head. He knew she was getting tired of him, and exactly how their special night was to end tonight. He knew he should be scared, but what he was he was feeling was a profound sense of relief.

There was a noise in the hall and he braced himself. She was back.

“Hello, darling,” the queen said, sweeping into the room. “Did you miss me?”

“Always,” he said, smiling at her.

“Would you like something to eat? I know you humans gain your energy from food.”

“All I need is you,” he said, rising to his feet and going to her. “I burn for you.”

“Well,” she said, pleased. “Then you shall have me.”

Without further ado she led the way out of the room and up the stairs to her opulent bed chamber. “I’ll just call the maid, shall I?”

“Let me be your maid,” he said earnestly. “This is a special night, after all.”

“You almost make me want to keep you,” she said, smiling indulgently. “Shall I make you one of us?”

“As milady wishes,” he said, undoing the buttons on the back of her gown slowly, to prolong things. She preferred to wear old-fashioned dresses with many buttons and flounces. As he worked his way through the many layers, he murmured endearments and compliments, touching and stroking as he went.

“Yes,” she said on a gasp. “Perhaps I shall make you one of us.”

“Whatever pleases milady.”

“What pleases me right now is to take you,” she said. She pushed him down onto the bed, ripping away his clothing, and then mounted him.

“Yes!” she hissed, fangs showing. She rode him fast and furiously.

“Take me, take me now!” he demanded, just as he was about to climax. He turned his head to bare his throat to her.

She hissed, jaws open wide to show her fangs, then sank her teeth into his neck. He felt the sharp pain of her bite, then a pulling sensation as she began to drain his blood. When he felt her start and begin to falter, he held her head in place, as if he could force her to keep drinking his tainted blood.

“What have you done to me,” she demanded, pulling back.

“You don’t look so good, darling,” he mocked. She was no longer young, and her beauty was fading.

“What have you done to me?” she repeated. She pulled completely away from him, trying to rise from the bed but having trouble doing so.

“Only what you deserve,” he said, sitting up, oblivious to the blood trickling down his throat.

She fell off the bed, writhing on the floor as his tainted blood coursed through her. “I am the queen!” she said, voice cracking. “I am supposed to live forever.”

“Nothing lives forever,” he said dispassionately, looking down on her as she began to age rapidly. “Not vampires, and not humans.”

As she turned to dust he lay back with a sigh and closed his eyes.

Story Eleven

Believe it or not, I actually reached my 50,000 words for NaNo on Wednesday, but I also pledged to write a story a day, so I’m still at it. I actually edited this story to shorten it up for the blog, hopefully it still makes sense.

Prompt: You receive a mysterious call from a friend who asks you to meet him or her at a secret location. When you arrive, that friend reveals that he or she is, by night, a superhero. What’s more, the friend needs your help in solving the latest case. Only problem is you can’t help. When your friend asks why you reveal the big twist—you’re the villain.

It was an ordinary enough day, I went to work, flirted with the new mail guy, came home, and after treating myself to Chinese take-out for supper, relaxed in front of the boob tube. A pretty boring start to my weekend maybe, but life’s not excitement all the time. Sometimes you just have to sit back and enjoy life, you know?

Right on cue, it was at this juncture the phone rang. I looked at it and considered just letting it keep ringing. And in retrospect, the way things turned out I wish I had. But curiosity got the better of me and I picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Santos, I’m so glad I found you at home!”

“What’s up Walt?”

“I’m working on something big, something really big.”

“I’m listening.” I reached down and picked up my bottle of beer from the coffee table to take a swig.

“I can’t talk about this over the phone. You’ll have to come and meet me.”

“Aw, man. I was planning to stay in tonight.”

“Please, Santos! You’re the first one I thought of to help me. Let me give you directions to where I am.”

“What the hell,” I said with a sigh. “I don’t have anything better to do.”

He began to rattle off directions and I wrote them down, hoping I got them right. “Okay, Walt, I think I’ve got it. Do—”

“Just hurry,” he said, and hung up before I could reply.


I got lost twice trying to follow Walter’s directions, and I had to back track once. The novelty of him being so mysterious had totally worn off by the time I reached the end of his instructions and parked my car. I was in a small parking lot close to a wooded area. There was no sign of Walter so I leaned into my car and tapped the horn.

“Quiet!” Walter hissed from behind me.

I whirled around. “Jeez, give me a heart attack why don’t you, Walter.”

I waited a couple of minutes before asking, “So what was so important we needed to meet at night in the middle of nowhere?”

“First, I have something to share. Something no one else in the world knows.” He hesitated. “I just don’t know where to start to explain it to you.”

I leaned back against the side of my car. “Just spit it out, Walter.”

“Okay. Here goes. I’m the Avenging Angel.”

I stared at him a minute and then I started laughing. “Good one, Walt. I could have done without the convoluted trip out here, but nice to see you’ve developed a sense of humor.” I turned to get back into my car but his voice stopped me.

“I am the Avenging Angel.” His voice sounded deeper, more sonorous.

I turned around slowly, and there beside me stood the Avenging Angel, the super hero that had been in all the news for the last three months. There had been a great deal of speculation over who he might be, this strange hero in the white spandex suit with the enormous, white, feathery wings. He wore a mask over his head, leaving only a small patch on his throat bare.

He appeared suddenly, three months ago, just in time to save a female politician from being assassinated. He’d been appearing regularly, if not sporadically, ever since. The thing was, he seemed to cherry pick those he helped – the rich politician, the jewelry store owner, the high profile couple who’s baby had been kidnapped. But that was a private observation and not one the public had put together yet.

“Why are you telling me this?” I wondered. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m honored, but I don’t understand why you would share this with me of all people.”

“I’m working a case, a very important case, but I can’t do it alone. I need your help.”

“My help?”

“You’re the only one I know who can not only keep my secret, but help me in my task. You’re strong, and smart, and you’re good at keeping secrets.”

“Well,” I said after hesitating for a moment, “If nothing else, you have me intrigued. What’s this case, and how do you think I can help you?”

“I’m going after the Whirling Dervish.”

My eyes widened. “You know who he is?”

The Whirling Dervish had appeared shortly after the Angel, acting as a counter part to him. He’d been villainized by the press, accused of interfering with the Angel’s good deeds and setting criminals free.

“No,” he admitted, turning to pace. “I don’t know his identity, but I’ve come up with a way to trap him, only it will take two of us.”

“I’m listening.”

He went on to tell me that he’d studied the videos of the Dervish, and figured out his fighting techniques. He proposed to create a crime, with me acting as the criminal, and when the Dervish appeared to help me escape, I’d shoot him with a specially made dart. The serum on the end of the dart would paralyze the Dervish long enough for the Angel to swoop in with a magnetic net.

“You’re sure this would work?”

“Absolutely. Like mine, his powers manifested during that magnetic pulse that hit the earth three months ago. I’ve heard of a few others who’ve been blessed with super powers, but none as strong as the Whirling Dervish and me. He needs to be stopped.”

“It’s a solid plan,” I told him in genuine admiration. “There’s only one little problem.”

“What’s that,” he asked indulgently, as if I wasn’t smart enough to find a flaw.

I started to spin, and before he could react, I had my talons buried in his throat, the only vulnerable place on him. “I’m the Whirling Dervish,” I whispered in his ear.

He gurgled a response, which only became more pronounced as I let him drop to the ground. I stared at his cooling body. Who’d have thought mousey little Walter had been the Avenging Angel, there was just no telling about people.

Closing my eyes, I let my Dervish personae subside and became simply Santos again. That had been easier than I expected. Walter liked to pretend the Avenging Angel had been the hero of the story, but the truth was he was making a fortune getting kick backs from the stores he “protected.” Most of the other crimes had involved actors hired for the job.

Just because he was dressed in white didn’t mean he was the good guy.

The Natives of Ionesis

Prompt – use this as your first line: The cloud is my true love and my worst enemy.

Oh, I know. You think I’m crazy, don’t you? I see the way you’re looking at me. But you’re forgetting something. We’re here on Ionesis, and here just about everything is sentient.

See that rock over there? That’s the director’s wife. And that slender tree with the blue flowers? That’s the doctor’s assistant.

You can check for hallucinogens in the atmosphere all you want, but you’re not going to find anything. You think we didn’t test the air and the water ourselves? When the planet first started to communicate with us we were a little freaked out. A lot of us retreated back into the ships and wouldn’t set a foot outside again until the biochemists and biologists and the rest of the egg heads ran every test in the book and proved to us we weren’t hallucinating.

How did Cloud and I meet? I was up in the hills, collecting soil samples, and I noticed this cloud following me. Finally, I stopped to confront him and he . . . enveloped me in his essence. We’ve been together pretty much ever since.

The worst enemy thing? Well, you have to remember, even though we have no problem communicating and . . . other things, they’re not human like we are. They don’t think like us. So sometimes they can be a little inappropriate.

Examples? Well, Cloud’s a bit of an exhibitionist. He likes to make love where we might be seen. That’s not really my thing, but he’ll talk me into it by promising to turn opaque so no one can see what we’re doing. But the minute he’s done, he turns transparent again leaving me buck naked in the center of the greenspace or up on the terrace.

Or maybe he’ll decide to levitate us, which is kind of erotic, but he’ll forget that I can’t levitate without him and when he suddenly disappears I’ll end up being dropped several feet. If I’m lucky I just end up bruised, but once or twice I’ve had fractures as well.

Where is this going? Where does any relationship go? We’re already living together, and we’ve just started talking marriage. Of course Cloud doesn’t really understand the concept, but we’re working on it.

Kids? I don’t know. Our scientists are working on it, but so far it’s not genetically possible.

Yes, I know that it is the responsibility of every colonist to procreate, but there are extenuating circumstances here. No, we’re not breaking the contract by choosing unsuitable mates. The contract was already broken by the people who sent us here.

The Colonizing Act states that only worlds that are devoid of sentient life are to be colonized. It’s not our fault Ionesis has sentient life. If the Corporation had been doing its job we would have never made landfall.

You can try to have us removed, but it’s too late. Most of us have already established relationships with the native life forms. Do you really think it’ll be so easy to break the bonds that have been made?

Bring it on. We’ll be waiting for you. And so will the natives of Ionesis.

Ghosts & Friends

Originally I’d planned to do a short bit for each of this week’s prompts – I thought they’d be quick and easy. But the first one ran so long (and I was already a day late) that I figured one was plenty.

To refresh your memory, the prompt was: One day in an abandoned factory haunted by a restless spirit, a lost girl summons a restless spirit.

“She’s one of the lost ones, Talla,” Jem said, placing a hand on her sister’s arm. “Everyone knows you can’t trust a lost one.”

Talla jerked her arm free. “Then don’t come with me.”

Jem watched her sister head towards the abandoned factory, biting her lip in indecision. The building had a reputation for being haunted, but of course that was why Talla was so interested in it. She had a soft spot for ghosts. Jem sighed and hurried to catch up.

Talla was waiting just inside the factory and gave her sister a small smile before leading the way to where the lost girl promised to meet them. The factory was dark and damp, smelling of mould and dust. It was sectioned off into empty rooms, all of them stripped of anything valuable by scavengers long ago.

The lost girl waited for them in the central most chamber, sitting on an empty crate. She was small and thin and dirty, dressed in raggedy black clothing. Her eyes seemed to glow in the dark.

“I am here, as promised,” she said to Talla. “What would you have of me?”

“There’s a ghost haunting this place,” Talla said without preamble.

“Yes, I can feel it.”

“I want to help it – I’m told you can do this.”

“Who says it wants or needs your help?”

“I…” For once Talla seemed to be at a loss for words. “I don’t know. I just get this overwhelming sense of sadness when I’m in here. This ghost has been here a long time, I think it needs help moving on.”

The girl cocked her head and studied her for a moment. “All right,” she said at last. “But I do this my way.”

“But what—” Jem started to ask before Talla elbowed her into silence.

The lost girl stood up from the crate and reseated herself on the floor, sitting cross-legged. After a second of hesitation, the others joined her.

“What do we do?” Jem asked.

“Be quiet,” the lost girl replied.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Closing her eyes she rested her hands on knees and began to chant. The chanting rose and fell with musical cadence, although she never actually sang.

Jem gasped as the ghost began to manifest above them, but Talla just looked up in wonder. It was a smoke-like wisp, a ragged remnant floating gently in the air above them. It dipped and bobbed and turned as though dancing. Still the lost girl chanted.

A second wisp appeared in a corner and moved slowly forward. The first one stopped its dance and waited. The girls watched in wonder as the second wisp drifted towards the first. The two entities circled each other, seemed to acknowledge each other’s presence, and moved in tandem in a lazy circle. They continued the dance the first one had started before flowing upwards and out of sight.

“What do you sense now?” the lost girl asked. The others hadn’t even been aware the chanting had stopped.

Tally looked surprised. “Peace and happiness.”

The lost girl nodded and climbed to her feet.

“I don’t understand!” Jem said. “I thought—”

“You thought I would banish the spirit.”

Jem nodded.

“The spirit was unhappy, lonely. All it needed was a friend.”

“So you summoned it one.”

“I said I would do it my way.” The lost girl shrugged. “It seemed a better choice than banishment.”

“Everyone needs a friend,” Talla said with a smile at the lost girl.

The lost girl smiled back.

Moving Out

I had an idea for the prompt from the Story Shack first, but there was no way I could stretch it to make 600 words. So I went with the one from The Plot Generator instead:

Your main character –name – Elizabeth Chan
An adjective to describe him or her - adorable
Somebody who might try to help your main character – Sarah Gloop
His or her relationship to the main character - sister
Jobs – doctor, gardener, fishmonger
An object - book
An adjective that could describe an object - crumpled
A number between 2 and 400 - 3
A location - Devon
Three more adjectives – feathery, backward, worrying
Three animals, singular – frog, fox, badger
Something a ghost might appear when photographed – skeletal
Two body parts, plural – fingers, legs
A type of accident – dancing
An adjective that could be used to describe a place – noisy

This time I’m just going to bold the words I included – I don’t know about you, but I found the changing colour really annoying. :-D

“I thought Devon was in England,” Sarah Gloop said to her sister.

“You’re thinking of Devonshire,” Elizabeth replied, then frowned. “At least I think you are. At any rate, this Devon is in Alberta.”

“I still don’t know why you and Henry have to move there,” Sarah grumbled, an adorable frown on her face.

“They need a new doctor,” Elizabeth told her patiently, trying to fit the book she was holding into the box of crumpled paper. “There. Seven down, three to go.”

“You should have married Larry the fishmonger. At least then you’d be Elizabeth Smith.”

“Sarah! I thought you liked Henry!”

“I do, it’s just . . . he’s like one of those dancing figures we put up at Halloween, all long fingers and clacking legs – he’s positively skeletal. It’s as though one of these days he’ll just fly apart.”

“What utter nonsense! And there’s nothing wrong with my name. Elizabeth Chan is perfectly respectable.”

Sarah blew out a noisy breath, blowing the feathery bangs out of her face. “Oh, don’t mind me,” she said apologetically. “I think I’m just a little jealous. You’ve found your true love and the closest I’ve come is that fling with the gardener last year.”

“You’re forgiven, of course,” Elizabeth told her. “Now help me take these boxes out to the truck.”

Sarah’s attitude was worrying, but Elizabeth was sure it was something they’d be able to overcome in the future. After all, it only took one bite from Henry to convince her. Closing the door behind her, she left her old life behind without so much as a backward glance, and hurried towards her future.

Viva La Revolucion!

This week's prompts actually required some thinking on my part. Especially the first one.

The words for the first prompt were so disparate that I couldn’t think of using them for anything other than a poem. Which was a little surprising, but it’s nice to do something different once in awhile.

The second prompt generated a flash piece that is both weird and a little sad.


Prompt One

Forestall, review, applause, vocalize, govern

Viva La Revolucion

Forestall your protests;
the time will soon be upon us.
Ideas are rising
like floodwaters in the spring.

Review the past
if you do not believe.
Though it comes not again
we can still learn from it.

Applause is given
for measures taken;
plan for the future
if there’s to be a tomorrow.

Vocalize your concerns
to anyone who will listen,
to affect the changes
you wish to see.

Govern your thoughts
and keep them hidden
from those who deny
the revolution is coming.


Prompt Two

Child Eternal
Light Attributes: Determination to remain young in body, mind, and spirit. Ability to see things with fresh eyes.
Shadow Attributes: Inability to grow up and be responsible. Extreme dependency on others for physical security.

There was nothing remarkable about her, especially in the beginning. It was only later, when she reached twelve years of age and stopped growing, that her parents realized she was different. They consulted several doctors but they could find nothing wrong. She was a medical anomaly.

The years passed and she never changed – it was as though her mind and body had been frozen in time. When she was eighteen years old another distinction became evident. She had a unique way of seeing the world. Each time she was shown something she saw it differently.

By this time she was no longer attending school, she just didn’t have the capacity to learn beyond the twelve year old level, so her parents started her on the talk show circuit. She had her fifteen minutes of fame, but all too quickly the novelty wore off and she was yesterday’s news.

Her parents grew tired of having an eternal child to care for. They talked in secret about different solutions and finally found a boarding school for special needs children. It was far enough away that they wouldn’t be expected to visit, close enough for her to come home for holidays.

Life went on in this way for some time and would have continued for many years had there not been an incident at the school involving several of the girls and several boys from the academy across the river. Their daughter was sent back to them and they turned their attention to a lawsuit against the school that they had trusted to protect their daughter.

Before they reached a settlement agreement, they realized something strange was happening to their daughter. It was not just that she was more withdrawn than she had been, she seemed to be …growing. For the first time in fifteen years she needed new clothing, not because her old clothes were worn out, but because she’d outgrown them.

No longer could she see the world with her unique point of view. It was as though with the loss of her innocence she lost all that made her special. For the life of them, her parents did not know whether this was for better or for worse.

Be Careful What You Wish For

This week’s fiction comes to you courtesy of something called an Archetype Card. This card belongs to a set of 80 cards, each with a different “archetype” or pattern of behaviour and shows both the light and dark aspects of these archetypes. They’re actually kind of fascinating and I think they’d make a really handy writing tool.

If you’re interested, you can find a description and walk-thru by Tiger’s Abyss HERE  or by Truth in Story HERE

Anyway, the card I drew was the Detective and the description was as follows:

Light Attributes:
Great powers of observation and intuition
Desire to seek out truth
Shadow Attributes:
Voyeurism
Falsifying information

And here’s the story I came up with from the prompt:

Be Careful What You Wish For

I knew it was a bad idea from the moment the woman approached me. It was the same old story: girl meets boy, girl and boy get married before they really get to know each other, boy spends long hours at the office, and girl suspects he’s cheating and hires a detective to follow him. That’s where I come in.

I hate these kinds of cases but I have to eat and things have been pretty slow lately. So when the not-so-young woman (she had to be in her 40s) darkened my door one gloomy morning, I didn’t figure I could turn the case down.

“Money’s not a problem,” she assured me. “In fact, that’s why I need to be sure. My assets are, shall we say, considerable.”

“You never had him sign a pre-nup?”

“It was such a whirlwind romance,” she said, blushing slightly. “It just didn’t occur to me.”

I just barely refrained from rolling my eyes. Love is no excuse for ignorance. But a buck is a buck.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll take your case.”

She gave me his picture, where he worked, that sort of thing, and left in a flurry of patchouli.

He looked like a decent enough guy, a little younger than her but who am I to judge? Anyway, after two months of tailing him, I was kind of feeling sorry for the guy. She may have been holding the purse-strings, but he was the one who was filling that purse. He worked a lot of overtime, yes, but that’s exactly what it was – work.

He stopped for an after work drink once, maybe twice a week with the guys, but that’s all it was. One drink and he was headed for home to his “loving” wife. Funny thing though, any time he was at a bar he was approached by a woman, but he turned them down every time. Even the one who accidentally spilled her drink on herself and asked him to help clean it off. She was a real looker, I’ll tell you, but all he did was offer her his hankie.

His wife came to my office to receive my report, and just sat there in the chair, lips pursed, when I finished reading it to her.

“You’re sure he’s not meeting anyone? No encounters with a woman at that bar he sometimes stops at?”

“You seem almost disappointed,” I said, as she confirmed the suspicions I was starting to have about her.

“It’s just…” She turned all coy and demure, then after a slight hesitation for effect added, “How much extra would it cost to make it look like he really had been seeing someone?”

“You mean falsifying my report?”

At least she had the decency to wince. “I just want to make sure I come out of this with what’s mine. You know the old saying, marry in haste, repent in leisure.”

“Or maybe you’re the one who had to sign a pre-nup, only now you’ve met someone with even more money. You want to have your cake and eat it too.”

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

“Interesting that you’d use the phrase “marry in haste, repent in leisure,” that’s exactly what your husband said when he hired me.”

I laid a series of pictures on the desk in front of her. Not only was the man she involved with older, he was richer too. “There’s another old saying that applies here. “Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.” And you’ll certainly be getting your divorce.”

How Does Your Garden Grow?

There’s a kind of funny story behind this story.

Last week I got the title as a prompt, the idea being to writing around 500 words on it. It was supposed to be done for today. Naturally I put it off. And put it off. Finally, a couple of days ago, I got an idea.

Actually, I got three ideas and I liked them all. But I only needed one, so I was forced to choose. And then the words dried up.

But today I finally went to the walk-in clinic about the cold I’ve had for the last 6 weeks or so, and I deliberately left my book at home and took a notebook instead. During my 2 hour wait, I wrote the following story.

And just so you know, I got home with just enough time to type it up before I had to leave to meet up with my writing group where I received some excellent feedback. The story below, however, is my original one. Unedited. :-)

How Does Your Garden Grow?

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?”

Julia stiffened at the slightly mocking, singsong voice. “My name’s not Mary,” she snapped, jabbing the spade a little more forcibly into the ground than was strictly necessary.

“It might as well be.”

Julia ground her teeth just the slightest bit as the shadow of her neighbour, Richard, fell over her.

“You act like the virgin Mary,” he continued. “You never go anywhere or do anything fun. I could show you a real fun time – all you have to do is say the word.”

Was he watching her that he knew what she did and didn’t do? That was over the line creepy. “The word is no.” Julia gathered up her gardening tools and got to her feet. “And just because there’s a hole in the hedge doesn’t mean you’re welcome in my yard.”

The smarmy grin on Richard’s face slipped. “I’m starting to lose my patience.”

“I have some place I need to be,” Julia said evenly. “Please leave the way you came.”

“Have it your way,” Richard said with a careless shrug. “But you’re only delaying the inevitable. I always get what I want.” He turned to leave but glanced back, giving her a leer. “And I definitely want you.”

Julia gave a faint shudder as she watched him leave.

The hole in the hedge bothered her. She’d been called away for an overnight trip and when she came home again there was the hole. Richard claimed it had been an accident – something about a party and someone falling through, but her gut told her he was lying.

When dusk fell Julia turned off the lights in her house before slipping outside into her back yard. She inhaled the fragrant scents of the night blooming flowers and felt the cares of the day slip away.

One of the reasons she chose this house to live in was the relative seclusion of the backyards. The houses in this neighbourhood were built low, and the hedges grew high giving the illusion of privacy.

She went over to examine the gap in the hedge more closely. The gap was substantial and looked more like someone had hacked away at it than fell through it. Something needed to be done about it but Richard would notice if it filled in too quickly.

Music began blasting from the house next door. Her lips tightened. He was like a blot on the neighbourhood. If it wasn’t his parties or hitting on his neighbours, it was the music he had blasting away in complete disregard to anyone preferring peace and quiet.

As though her thoughts summoned him, he appeared in the gap in the hedge. “Changed your mind?” he asked with a grin. “I knew you would. It was only a matter of time.”

Moonlight shone down on them. With a start she realized the moon was full. And it was midsummer. She smiled, and had Richard not been so sure of a conquest, that smile would have sent a shiver down his spine.

“Your place or mine, baby,” he asked, grin growing wider.

“Why not right here?” Julia said, taking a few steps closer. Her hands began moving in the moonlight, almost like she was trying to weave it.

Richard watched, puzzled, then looked at her face again. “What—” His eyes widened in fear as he tried to move. “What’s going on?”

Julia moved another step forward, the moonlight giving her skin a greenish cast, her hands moving more rapidly. New growth from the hedge snaked through the gap. Slim branches slide effortlessly beneath Richard’s skin.

“What’s happening to me?”

“You put a hole in my hedge,” Julia said reasonably, “Now you’re fixing it. I didn’t have enough resources of my own, but yours will do nicely.”

“What are you?” Richard’s voice was an agonized whisper.

“I’m a dryad of course. And it’s never a good idea to piss off a dryad.”

There was no answer from the Richard-like shape now filling the gap in the hedge. By morning there would be no sign he’d ever been there.

“And you should never mess with a dryad’s garden.”

Steampunk

In a nutshell, Steampunk is historical fiction crossed with science fiction. But of course it’s not really that simple. The history is that of the Victorian age, while the science is for the most part steam driven. To tell the truth, it’s a little hard (and a lot complicated) to try and explain, so I’m not going to try. If you’re really interested, check out this article from the Huffington Post it's really good.

Now, without further ado, here’s my story from last week’s workshop:

“Damnation!” Lord Montague cursed as the spring he’d been trying to insert in the delicate piece of machinery went flying.

“Geoffrey!” his lady wife admonished him.

He looked up, his irritation sliding into embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“We had an agreement. You are only permitted to work on your inventions in the parlour if you take care with your language.”

“I said I was sorry,” he said, becoming irritable once more. “Now where did that d--” He glanced at his wife’s frown and quickly corrected himself. “Where did that spring go?”

“Here it is, papa,” said his daughter Marion, from where she was sitting near the fireplace attending to her embroidery. She gave an unladylike giggle. “You see? It has become tangled with my hair comb.” Her needlework lay forgotten in her lap as she reached up to extract the spring.

“Marion, I do wish you’d leave those combs in your hair,” said Lady Montague.

“I cannot help it, mama,” Marion said. “They simply will not stay put. Why, this spring works much better.” She proved her point as she demonstrated the difficulty she had removing it from her hair. Wincing, she finally freed the comb, the spring attached, as well as several strands of honey blond hair.

“Papa,” she said, working the spring free of the comb and handing it to him. “You have invented so many wonderful things, could you not invent a hair comb that will stay in my hair?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her parents said, both at the same time.

Marion pursed her lips but let the subject drop. This was not the first time one of her suggestions was dismissed out of hand, nor would it be the last, she supposed. But the idea of somehow using a spring along with a comb so that it would stay in her hair would not leave her.

Several day late, an opportunity finally presented itself for her to experiment on her own. Her parents were attending the opera, and as the Italian sopranos tended to give Marion a headache, she begged off and was allowed to remain at home with Tilly, her maid, for company. This was doubly fortunate for Marion as Tilly had begun keeping company with the new footman not a fortnight ago and the girls were quick to seize the opportunity before them. Tilly could visit her paramour whilst Marion worked uninterrupted in the parlour.

Marion often sat quietly in a corner of the parlour under the guise of writing letters or doing needlework while her father was busy at his work table. Her attention, however, was not on what she was doing but rather on what her father was doing. She was intelligent and quick witted, and knew far more about mechanics than either parent would have guessed.

Her first attempts at improving a hair comb proved unsatisfactory at best. Attaching a spring to the comb was not much of an improvement, and the spring would become tangled in her hair requiring more patience than she feared she was capable of to extract it. She tried various combinations of various tiny gears and the spring, but the resulting comb was rather large and unwieldy.

“Damnation!” she exclaimed as the silver comb of her latest attempt went flying and hit the stone of the fireplace. Had her mother been within earshot, she would have fainted dead away at the language coming from her daughter. A knack for inventing was not the only thing Marion had inherited from her father.

The force with which the comb hit the stone had bent it at almost a forty-five degree angle. Marion picked it up and turned it around in her hand.

“Hmm. I wonder.”

Fired by new ideas and possibilities, she worked well past the time she should have, which is why when her parents returned they found her asleep at the work table, surrounded by the detritus of her work.

“What is all this?” thundered her father.

Her mother was too overcome to speak, and plunked herself down on the settee, fanning herself furiously.

Marion raised a sleepy head, a thin winding wheel from a watch stuck to her cheek. “Oh, hullo father, mother. How was the opera?”

“Never mind that,” her father said, picking up one of her discarded pieces and turning it around in his hand curiously. “How many times have you been told--what is this?”

“I call it a hair clip,” Marion said proudly. “You see how when it is closed it looks like a pair of lips? But it’s made from a pair of combs - comb, plus lips - clip.”

“How ingenious,” her father murmured. He glanced at several of her prototypes made with straight pieces of metal, some made with different sizes of gears, some with winding wheels from watches coming together. “And what of these?”

“Oh, those,” Marion said offhandedly. “Those were just prototypes, not very efficient for holding hair.”

“No, but they would be perfect for holding other things in place. Show me how you made these,” Lord Montague said eagerly.

Lady Montague stared at the pair from where she sat on the settee, appalled at the turn things had taken.

She had not been keen on having children, but Geoffrey spent so much time on his inventions she thought a child would help fill the void. When she gave birth to a daughter she couldn’t have been happier. A son would have most likely followed in his father’s footsteps, but a daughter - a daughter would have none of that kind of interest. A daughter would be sweet and gentle and keep her company in the long evenings while Geoffrey tinkered with his bits and pieces.

She sighed heavily and rose to her feet. “I’m going to bed,” she announced, unsurprised when she was ignored.

Maybe I should get a dog, she thought, closing the door behind her.