Red Bracelets and Familiars

I’m going to cut right to the chase today. Here are the stories for the last two prompts, and following them is the prompt for next week. Hope you enjoy!

RED BRACELETS

I was a boring woman, with my red bracelets and my strange bottles. See how bright the red. Listen to the chime of my bottles. I keep to myself, a plain woman with long dark hair in a non-descript dress, neither young nor old – timeless.

My neighbours call me bruja and speak of me only in whispers. The street urchins cause me no mischief, nor do they trespass save for when the dare each other to touch one of my precious bottles. Are they surprised by the cold, the texture? I wonder.

The bottles hang from the tree in my postage stamp front yard, swaying in the breeze, rattling when the wind picks up. Each bottle is unalike, unique. Each song it sings is different. I hear their music even when the air is still.

The bracelets were passed down from generation to generation to the eldest daughter. Until me. I was not the eldest, but they are mine nonetheless. They have no beginning and no end. I cannot remove them even should I care to do so. But why would I? I sacrificed much to gain them.

My sister was weak, unworthy. She would never have had the courage to care for the bracelets as they must be cared for. To do what she must to keep them red. My mother and my grandmother knew this but they were slaves to tradition and so my sister had lessons in the bracelets and I was sent to the witch in the woods, my mother’s sister, to learn the secret of the bottles.

They’re connected, you see, the bracelets and the bottles. You cannot have one without the other. And as soon as I understood that, my path was set. It took practice, many false starts, but I learned to perfect my bottles, to craft them into the shape of the soul. And in secret I watched my mother and grandmother attempt to instruct my sister in the blood magic of the bracelets, the knowledge of the forbidden filling me.

So I learned the secret of the bottles from my aunt, and then, to her horror, I embraced the magic of the bracelets and she became the first. That green, misshapen bottle, clumsily made, is hers. When the day came for the bracelet ceremony I was ready. When it was done I had three more bottles for my collection and the bracelets gleamed wetly red around my wrists.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

FAMILIAR

I survived the magical experiment gone haywire by hiding in her library. You’d think someone of her calibre would know better, but then Daphne always was over confident, always thought she was better than anyone else. Frankly, she got what was coming to her.

I was her trusted apprentice but her trust only went so far. I was good enough for the grunt work – gathering ingredients, mixing potions, cleaning up afterwards – but not for actual spellwork. She kept her spell book under lock and key and me in the dark.

Another of Daphne’s faults was that she didn’t believe in familiars. I’d always believed a familiar was an integral part of a witch’s make-up but when I broached the subject to her she just looked down her nose at me. I argued that the witch’s handbook advised the first solo spell should be the acquiring of a familiar she sneered and told me, “I’ll have no mangy animals in my household. Familiars are more trouble than they’re worth.”

So that was that and I never mentioned it again, just did what I was told and learned what I could. She was miserly with the lessons, but I was a quick study and learned more than she ever realized.

I didn’t know what the spell she intended to cast that day was of course, just that it would be major judging by the number of times she sent me to the woods and the village for ingredients. As usual, she zapped me with a spell of silence – just because that one time I distracted her with a question – so I couldn’t have warned her about the mouse even if I cared to.

So I stood in fuming silence watching the mouse creep closer and closer to the salt of the protective circle around her, braced for the inevitable. The mouse crossed the circle, the spell went awry, and I bolted for the well warded library.

I knew it was safe to come out when I could speak again – personal spells always dissipate when the caster dies. Daphne was a smear of ash on the floor. The mouse crept out from under the broom that had fallen and scurried over to my feet.

“Well done, Otis,” I said, stooping down so he could hop into my hand.

Familiars didn’t have to be big and mangy to be effective.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Wordage Report

Wandering Wizards – 0
I gotta tell you, the story’s been as elusive as the sun lately, but I’ll keep working on it.

Weekly Prompt – 409 words and 397 words
The fact that I got both prompt stories dome makes me feel like I’m actually doing something.

New Prompt
Use this as your first line:
I've got my lantern - now I'm going into hiding.

Happy Writing!

Gambling and Tattoos

I may not have done a lot of writing this week, but I did manage a short piece for both of Tuesday’s prompts. They’re a little on the dark side, but that’s the kind of week I had. :-D

Prompt one:
Dampness lingers in the midnight air. Nearby, an unidentifiable sound pricks at your nerves, repeating every few seconds. Your breath catches in your throat as a long shadow cleaves through the light spilling from a street lamp just around the corner ahead of you. You consider turning back…what happens?

The fall air was damp and cool. Somewhere a clock tolled twelve as I hurried down the path. I shouldn’t be here; I knew that but the shortcut through the park was the only way I’d get there on time. I stumbled as a faint sound filtered through the darkness. Again it sounded, and again. What was it? Not a chime, not the bell from the clock tower…was the noise made by human vocal cords? Lord, I hoped so. The noise kept repeating every few seconds, growing closer. Or maybe it was just me getting closer to it. There – the park gates. I was almost to safety. The street lights on either side of the gate were the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. Suddenly I stopped. A whimper escaped my dry lips as a shadow formed in the light. Yes, taking the path had been a gamble. And I’d just lost.

Prompt two:
You are showering one morning when you notice a tattoo on your body that you’re quite sure you don’t remember getting. What is it, how did you get it, and what does it mean?

From all accounts it had been a wicked cool party. I just wish I could remember it. I remember Joyce talking me into going, I remember having a drink of the mystery punch, but everything was blurry after that.

I have no idea how long I was there or how I got home. And I certainly don’t remember getting the tattoo I discovered on my left hip when I woke up.

I made a few phone calls to friends who’d also been at the party, but their memories were as foggy as mine. Six of them also ended up with tattoos they didn’t remember getting. That made seven of us altogether.

It was Brian’s idea for us all to meet up to compare tats. At first we thought they were all the same but placed on different parts of the body – hip, thigh, chest, back, shoulder, leg, arm – but identical other than that. But Jackie, the artist of the group, noticed subtle differences.

Terry suggested we’d all joined a cult or something while we were high. I wanted to know what was in the punch, but no one knew who brought it. Then Simon suggested we’d been marked for something, but we laughed at his paranoia.

We stopped laughing when the first body showed up. One by one we’ve been killed, each time by a different method by all during the night of a new moon. Even though I’m under police protection I’m resigned to my fate. Tonight is the new moon. And I’m the last.

The Bridge

I have a fabulous Fiction Friday in store for you. Being the last Friday of the month it’s time for the writing results from the picture prompt posted at the beginning of the month. I have not one, but two stories inspired by my bridge picture. Okay, technically there’s three of them, but you’re only getting two of them today. I didn’t want to overwhelm you. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. It has nothing to do with the fact I haven’t quite finished my own yet. ;-)

As always, we begin with a repeat of the picture:

First up we have a flash story by Jamie DeBree. It’s been sitting in my inbox for weeks now because I refused to read it before I finished my own. Trust me, it was well worth the wait.


Darkness & Light

by Jamie DeBree

The rope felt rough and splintery in my tight grip as I stood at the edge of the rickety wooden bridge. It was one of those defining moments in life - the ones where you know that once you make the decision to move, you can never go back. Nothing will ever be the same.

I could still see them in the mist, but barely. If I ran, I might be able to catch up. Or I might fall through one of the rotted out boards and find out just exactly how deep this cursed ravine really was. Probably right before I died.

"Go big or go home," I muttered, taking one last look at my rickety fate. Took a deep breath, and then ran, a kind of zig-zag-jog as I tried to keep my feet on the outer edges of the bridge, where it was still mostly supported by those old, fraying vines. My hands slid across the vibrating ropes, collecting splinters and I used the pain to fuel my sprint. My pulse was pounding in my ears, adrenaline pulling me forward even when chips and chunks of wood fell out from under my feet.

The fog engulfed me and I could no longer see my prey, but still I ran, knowing I couldn't give up, couldn't let them win.

Darkness materialized beside me, like he'd been there all along. He grimaced, knowing I had to stop Light from leaving, though I'd embraced Darkness not so long ago. Our exclusive dalliance had been just that, but it was over. I couldn't commit to just one of them, as he wished me to do.

My second target shined through the mist, and I pushed harder, running faster, knowing the Light couldn't hurt me like it could Darkness. I had to catch him. Had to keep him from leaving us.

Darkness fell behind as I continued on, the burning in my lungs not so bad anymore. The shine grew brighter, and hurt my eyes as the mist began to fall away.

"Stop, please!" I called to Light. "You can't go! We need you!" I couldn't see him, but I felt his warmth. Knew he could hear me where he was.

"You freed Darkness from his dungeon," he said, his voice smooth and calm. "We each need our own space - you know that. If he's allowed to run free, I must leave. 'Tis the way of all things."

I nodded. "I know. And I'm sorry. I never should have opened that lock. But I did, and now I need your help. Please don't leave me."

Light hesitated. "You'll get rid of the Darkness?"

I thought about that for a long moment. "No," I replied. "I don't think you can exist without each other, and I can't go on without you both. But I will put him back in his place, and make sure he stays there, with your help."

The mist seemed to flicker, and then slowly dissipated. The bridge swayed slightly, the ropes rasping my palms yet again as Light's figure finally appeared, his brilliance toned down so I could see his visage. I looked back, and Darkness was there too, waiting.

My heartbeat slowed, my tension drained, and I took a long breath into my lungs. Everything would be okay now.

Until Darkness enticed me to let him out again.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Next I received this story by C.L. Hannah. One of the things I love about these prompt stories is that we work from the same picture but come up with totally different stories. I hope these ladies take up the challenge for October as well.


Never Gone

by C. L. Hannah

Misty air dances over my face as I sit on a tree stump. Above, mosquitoes buzz around my head like angry bees yet the birds are mysteriously silent. My stomach growls; I haven’t eaten since before the funeral yesterday.

Pushing to my feet, I wipe the dampness from my pants and think about all the empty platitudes that were pressed on me as people made their ways out of the church. She’s in a better place. There’s a reason for everything. You can still have another child. I know how you feel. And of course the easily said, be strong.

They have no idea, I think, rolling my eyes. No understanding of the gut wrenching pain that entered my soul the moment my darling daughter left me. No understanding of how difficult it is to just get out of bed in the mornings nor how draining it is just remembering how to breathe.

No. No one understands. Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I wonder if I’ll ever be whole again. Will I ever stop hurting?

The drone of a distant plane momentarily distracts me and I look heavenward, searching for the offender that dares to interrupt my mourning.

The plane is probably off to some sunny location with a cabin full of happy, excited people, I think, grinding my teeth. I bet if they knew what I do, they’d not have chosen to be on that plane but rather to be at home with their loved ones safely tucked behind locked doors.

Lowering my eyes, I stare across the bridge and wonder for the millionth time, why? Why did this happen? Why did Sydney insist on showing me her dance moves here?

This is all my fault. I’m the adult. I should have known better. But Sydney’s smile melted my reluctance and I wanted her to be happy, so I just stood there and watched as she danced her way off the side of the bridge, to her death in the gorge below.

Sitting back down on the stump, I dig my heels into the damp ground making a hole. I wonder if I can make a big enough one so I can crawl into it and die.

“Don’t think like that Momma.”

Snapping my head up, I search for the source of the words. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me Momma. Don’t you recognize your own daughter?”

“You can’t be.” My heart races as my eyes flick through the shifting, fog shadows. “My Sydney died two weeks ago.”

“No I didn’t Momma. I just changed forms, that’s all. Come. Come to me and you’ll see.”

Squinting into the fog I think I see something take shape about half way across the bridge. Could it be? Is it true?

Jumping to my feet I rush toward the bridge then pause. Am I losing it? This can’t be happening and yet, I heard her, so it must be.

Taking a deep breath, I start across the bridge. The fog gets thicker the further out I go, until I can barely make out the wooden slats beneath my feet.

“Where are you?”

“You’re almost to me Momma. Keep coming, you’re almost here.”

I feel like I’m pushing through a door with my next step. The fog is now so thick that even the bugs have been silenced.

“Almost Momma. Almost.”

Taking another step I reach out my hand and hold onto the railing for support.

“That’s it Momma, now turn and look at the beautiful scenery below.”

Turning as directed, I feel my foot start to slip, but the scenery below, suddenly clear of fog, catches my attention. It’s not until my foot is dangling in mid air that I realize the voice isn’t my daughter’s but an evil imitation of it. I try to pull my foot back but as I do the other one slips and I find myself hanging off the side of the bridge. Only my grip on the railing stands between me and death.

“What are you waiting for Momma?” the evil imitation voice, sing songs. “Don’t you want to see me?”

“You are not my daughter,” I say, struggling to hold onto the railing. “You’re nothing. My daughter is dead. Gone.”

“Yes she is.” The imitation voice, now a loud hiss, agrees. “But you keep blaming yourself so I thought I’d help you out and have you join her. All you need to do is let go. Free yourself Momma. Let go and join your daughter.”

I think about the suggestion for a nano second before it hits me that if I do let go then I’ll never see another sunrise or sunset. I’ll never again hear birds singing or coyotes calling and I’ll never have the chance of being a Momma again.

“No!” I struggle to pull myself back onto the bridge. “This is not how it ends.” Pulling up with my arms, I wiggle my hips back onto the bridge and shimmy backwards until I’m safely in the middle. “This however, ends here, now. I miss my angel with my whole heart but it is not time for me to join her.”

Standing, I run off the bridge and slide through the fallen leaves to my car. Turning the ignition on, I slam the car into reverse and look in the rear view mirror. Sitting there, where her car seat used to be, is Sydney. She’s smiling.

“I told the devil you wouldn’t fall for it Momma. I told him that you’re stronger then he thinks and that you have more to live for then he can imagine. I’m proud of you Momma.”

My tears distort Sydney’s appearance but I know in my heart that it’s truly her this time.

“I love you so much baby girl. I’m so sorry I didn’t reach you in time.”

“You weren’t supposed to reach me Momma. It was my time to go to heaven. Please don’t be sad. There is still so much for you to do here. We will be together one day but until that day arrives, live Momma, live. You have so many opportunities coming your way, don’t miss them because you’re sad. I’m still part of you, not like before but still, part of you. I promise.”

“Thank you baby girl. I’ll make you proud of me. I promise.”

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and feel the pain that has held me hostage for the past two weeks suddenly shatter. A lightness seeps into my chest and I feel warm. Looking at my own image in the mirror, I wipe the dampness from my cheeks and smile. I’m going to be OK.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Don’t forget to check back next Friday for October’s picture prompt. Who knows, maybe you’ll be inspired as well. And the Friday after that I’ll be posting my own story - I hope it’ll be worth the wait.

Forest Angel

You’re in for a treat today, I have not just one but two stories inspired by the picture prompt for August:

As a point of interest, when I was trying to come up with an idea for my own story, I decided to do a little research on the picture itself. It’s called, Forest Angel of the Ozarks, Missouri. Pretty much every hit on the Google search led me to another version of the same picture. There doesn’t seem to be any other information, other than it truly does exist.

With that in mind, I’d like to first share a story by a friend of mine. I actually sent an email out to several writer friends, begging for a story, and she’s the only one who responded. :-D

I’m not sure if enjoy is the proper word to use for this story, but it’s certainly very appropriate based on current events, and even though we’re both Canadians, the scary part for me is I could actually picture something like this happening.


Hate Lives
by C.L. Hannah

“Virginia was just the start of it Malcolm. Now that someone’s opened Pandora’s box and let hate escape, it’s only going to get worse. Tell me you’ve taken the steps we discussed, that everyone is in motion.”

Malcolm stared across the breakfast table at his father and shook his head. Popping the end of his scone into his mouth he chewed thoughtfully. “You know Dad, just because Hitler raised an army doesn’t mean history will repeat itself and the Confederates will this time.”

Running a hand over his face, Stuart sighed heavily. “You don’t know that son. You weren’t around when Hitler ran over countries taking what he wanted and exterminating what he didn’t.” Resting his elbows on the table he leaned forward and stared hard at the boy-man sitting before him. “How you’re my son and refuse to understand that history always repeats itself is beyond me.”

Standing, Malcolm walked to the sink with his dishes. Staring out the window at the beautifully sunny day he spoke without turning around. “Can’t you see the beautiful day Dad? Things aren’t as dire as you’re making them out to be. Please, just this once, enjoy what we have and look forward to our future.”

Stuart slammed his hand on the table, making Malcolm jump. “Look at me when you speak to me boy. I’m not one of your rat pack. I’m your father and you will address me with respect.”

“Respect is earned Dad,” said Malcolm, turning and leaning back against the sink. “You always told me that.”

“So what are you trying to tell me? That you haven’t made the calls? That everyone isn’t making their ways to the bunker as we speak? You’re playing a dangerous game son.”

“Game? You call this a game? This is life Dad, real life.”

“That’s right. This is life and if we’re going to survive it we have to take action. Now. If we don’t call no one will know it’s time. And one of us must be there to let them in son, you know that. Only one of our eye scans will open the door.”

“I’m not retreating to the bunker Dad. There is too much I want to do above ground.”

Stuart stared hard at his son and shook his head. “Have it your way boy. But remember once the door is locked it can only be opened from the inside and no one will be able to hear you knocking through the steel door. Especially after all hell breaks loose. No one. Think long and hard before you turn your back on what you know is the only safe way to survive the coming war.”

“Yah, sure, gotta go, Steve is waiting for me down by the creek.”

“Let him wait,” said Stuart, to his son’s retreating back. Knowing he had an obligation to those trusting him to protect them, he picked up the file from the table, walked into his office and started to make the calls.

Four hours later everyone on the list was safely inside the bunker. Before securing the heavy steel door, Stuart looked around, praying his son had come to his senses and would arrive. The sound of gunfire startled him and he took a step inside but still held the door open.

“It’s time Stuart,” said Lloyd, his best friend. “I’m sorry but it’s time.”

“Just give him five more minutes. I’ll close the door before anyone else tries to get in, I promise.”

Lloyd stood at his friend’s shoulder helping to scan the forest. A bomb blew up some factories in town shaking the ground under their feet. The smell of gunpowder floated through the trees, sticking to their clothing but still, they watched and hoped.

“It’s time,” said Stuart, pulling on the door.

“Let me,” said Lloyd, reaching to help.

“No. This is on me. I’ll do it.”

Five hours later the news reported more rioting in North Carolina, Tennessee and Kentucky. The National Guard had been called out but the army the Confederates had miraculously pulled together wasn’t being contained. The race wars had returned.

“I’m sorry Stuart,” said Lloyd. “I know you’d hoped your son would listen and understand. It must be brutal to know he’s out there when we’re safe in here.”

“It is, what it is,” said Stuart, his eyes tearing up. “I brought him into this world and did my best to keep him it but he refused to listen. He thought he knew better. But I suppose we all thought we knew more than our parents, so it really shouldn’t surprise me. I just wish he’d listened. I feel like I’ve failed. Maybe if I’d stayed up top, I could have gotten him to believe?”

The bunker shook as another bomb detonated near by but other than a few of the ceiling lamps swaying everyone was safe inside. Outside the landscape was being pock marked by bombs and riddled with dead bodies as the two sides fought for dominance. History was repeating itself.

When things finally calmed down on the surface, Stuart led the people from the bunker out into the sunshine. They stood silently, taking in all the carnage and wasted lives of those who hadn’t believed that history would repeat itself.

“What a waste,” said Stuart, turning a body over with his toe. “Oh My God, Malcolm.”

“See Stuart,” said Lloyd, supporting him by the arm. “In the end he did believe. He understood. You didn't fail, you did your job.”

Over the following weeks the people from the bunker rebuilt their homes and lives. They accepted strangers into their small town and helped each other heal. None of them forgot the sacrifice Stuart had made and on the day that would have been Malcolm’s birthday, they all gathered and erected a stone angel on the spot he’d died.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

My own story (as you might expect) is a little more out there. The idea for it came when I was sending my buddy Jamie her daily quote email. I was talking about coming up short for ideas and I was going to facetiously suggest I write one based on the villains from one of my favourite television shows and suddenly it clicked - and I had my idea.

If you’re a fan of science fiction, you’ll probably recognize what show this “character” is from. If you’re not, well....I think I’ll just keep you guessing. :-D

Hey! I guess technically this is my very first piece of fan fiction.


Even Monsters Need to Feed

by Carol R. Ward

I have been here for a thousand years, and if I must I will be here for a thousand more. Waiting. Longing. Dormant. It has been too long since I fed.

Some called us the lonely assassins. Most called us monsters. I suppose this is true for we were born of the union between the medusas and the basilisks. But I tell you plainly, we are not evil. We are not motivated by cruelty or greed, the evil that we are accused of is merely our desire to survive. To feed.

We have been here since the dawn of time and we will still be here when time runs down. We are everywhere, maybe even in your own back yard. For we are cunning and patient. But we have no conscience and no emotions. We have no need of them.

You will never see us in our true form. When you glance our way we assume the form you see me in now, that of a stone angel. This is the form we take our prey in. A single touch is all we need to extract the life essence of our food.

Our form was not always that of an angel, but it is the one we are most comfortable in. It seems soothing to our prey, at least until we are ready to attack and our claws and fangs appear. Their fear adds flavour to our sustenance.

Unobserved we can move with incredible speed. It is only when our prey is looking that we take on the appearance of harmless stone. As long as they are looking we cannot move. It’s only once they look away that we are free to act.

Our prey does not die, as such. With a touch we send them back to a time before their birth and then feed on the energy that remains of what would have been their life. Our prey is helpless in our presence. Weapons cannot kill us and we possess the ability to reform if we are destroyed.

When hunting in groups we must take care. Should we accidentally look at each other we would become locked in place forever. I have even heard of instances where a group of us on a hunt accidentally exchanged glances and remained frozen in place until they starved to death. For this reason when we are in groups we often cover our faces with our hands, giving the appearance that we are weeping.

Our numbers do not change much. We do not procreate in the sense humans do. First of all, we have no emotions so there is no love or desire, and though we look human we are not. We are unable to perform the physical act of love. Should the need to procreate arise, we can use our magic to give life to other, lesser statues.

I am the sole survivor of this place. We came here eons ago, and fed until there was nothing left. A glance towards one of my fellows was all it took and we were frozen in place. The others moved on, leaving us behind. As the ages passed my companion starved to death, and I was left too weak to move.

Should you come across me in the woods my exile will end. I give this advice freely:

Don’t blink.