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.

All For Love

Prompt: Write a 300 word story in the epic genre. It's about an old man in love and should include a poster. Also use the sentence 'Thanks for nothing.' Bonus prompt: Civilization has come to an end.

“So then I tell him, I did, "Thanks for nothing." And you know what he did?” Warren didn’t wait for an answer as he picked his way carefully over the rubble, dragging the sled behind him. “He told me it was the least he could do. That’s when I slugged him with the pipe.”

He worked his way over to a likely looking pile of debris, poking at it with the steel rod that doubled as a cane. “I don’t know, Lizzie,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m thinking it might be time to start working a new section. It’s been pretty slim pickings lately.”

Using the rod as a poker, he moved some of the detritus aside. His eyes lit up. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

He grasped the aluminum sheet and worked it out from under the wreckage piled on top of it. It was easily three feet by three feet, and hardly dented at all. One side had a poster with the slogan, “Kindness Matters” stuck to it. Warren grinned, it would add a decorative touch to the shelter.

“Couple more like this and I can finish the shelter, Lizzie.”

He spent the rest of the day moving back and forth across the debris field and though he found several pieces worthy of collection, none was as good as his first find of the day.

“I tell you, Lizzie, this sure isn’t the way I expected to spend my retirement,” Warren said as he headed back to the shelter.

The shelter was a work in progress, the third such shelter he’d built since the end of the world. The first had been a pitiful attempt and simply fallen apart. The second had been much more solid, but hadn’t been able to withstand the hurricane force winds that had swept through what was left of the city.

“I promise you, Lizzie. This shelter will be built to last. And it’s only until you’re feeling better. Then we’ll try our luck in the farmlands, just like I promised.”

Warren unloaded the sled and swiped a hand across his forehead. “Looks like it’s going to be another hot one today, Lizzie. What do you say I scrounge us up something to eat?”

He rummaged through the old metal strong box they used for their valuables. “Look what I found,” he said, triumphantly holding up a chocolate bar. “It just happens to be your favourite too. Wanna share?”

Securing the lock again he chuckled. “I didn’t think so. Oh, the things I do for love.”

He tossed the bar to Lizzie where she lay under the half built shelter. It landed on her mummified chest where it teetered for a second before sliding off.

“Don’t eat it all at once,” he advised her, and imagined her smiling at him in return.

Life On the Beach of Faery

Prompt: Write a 1,000 word story in the fairy tale genre. It’s about a penniless writer and should include expired food. Also, use the sentence ‘Life was better on the other side.’ Bonus prompt: Your character is shipwrecked.


A gentle rocking motion awakened George. He’d been having the most interesting dream. In it he’d won a free passage on a cruise ship into the land of Faery, all expenses paid. Of course he jumped at the chance. What writer wouldn’t? He was down to his last penny and had just been told again that his stories lacked originality. A trip into Faery would create enough fuel for stories to last a lifetime.

The rocking continued and with a frown he struggled to open his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It hadn’t been a dream at all. He was half in, half out of the water on some beach, clutching a white and red life preserver ring.

“In or out,” a squeaky voice told him.

George peered blearily around. “What?”

“Either go back into the water or come all the way out. You can’t just hang about like this.”

“Who—who are you?”

“I’m Tilly.” The owner of the voice stepped close enough for him to see her. She was tiny and green and naked, with gossamer wings fluttering behind her. “This is my section of beach and I don’t tolerate in-betweeners.”

“I apologize,” George told her. “I didn’t mean to trespass. I guess I’m shipwrecked.”

“Makes no difference,” Tilly said with a sniff. “You can’t stay here, go find your own section of beach.”

With a great effort of will, George managed to lever himself up out of the water. He stood, swaying slightly, and looked around.

The white sand beach stretched in both directions, sometimes wide sometimes narrow, sometimes strewn with black rock. It was bordered by the deep aqua ocean on one side, and a variety of trees on the other. Aware of Tilly’s glare as she stood, hands fisted on her hips, George stumbled away along the shore, leaving the ring behind.

“Humans!” she snorted derisively after him.

He passed a goblin, a troll, and two dwarves before he saw another human.

“Hey!” the man called, waving from the tree line. Dropping his armload of coconuts he started towards George.

George halted, too tired and discouraged to even meet him halfway. No amount of stories was worth what he was going through. All he wanted was a good cup of tea before he curled up for a nap.

“You must be new here,” the man said. He extended his hand. “I’m Tim.”

“George, George Beaumont.”

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you George,” Tim said as they shook hands. “C’mon up and join me for breakfast.”

With nothing better to do, George followed him into the trees to the camp set up there. They feasted on coconut meat washed down with coconut milk.

“How long have you been here?” George asked.

Tim shrugged. “A year, two maybe. I fell through a magic portal. How about you?”

“I won a cruise to Faery. We’d hardly passed through the barrier when the storm hit. I got swept overboard and ended up here. I’ve got a vague recollection of some mermaids . . .”

“You got lucky. I try and stay away from the merfolk – they’re as likely to drown you as to help you.”

George looked around, taking in the crude shelter, the canopy of trees sheltering them from the sun, the sound of water – a creek or a waterfall – coming from nearby.

“So this is it?” he asked. “Just find a place to hunker down and wait to be rescued?”

“Don’t hold your breath waiting for rescue,” Tim advised. “Getting into Faery is easy, getting out again? Not so much.”

George stared at him. “But the cruise…”

Tim shrugged. “Maybe if you’d stayed on the ship you might have had a chance, but they’re not going to search for a mere human.”

George had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach but he didn’t think Tim was lying.

“I’m sorry,” Tim said sincerely. “You can stay here with me if you like, at least we’ll have each other to talk to.”

“Thank you,” George said numbly. “I appreciate it.”

“Life was better on the other side,” Tim told him, “A lot better. I can tell you that.”

Over the next few weeks Tim showed George the ins and outs of life on the beach of Faery. George learned how to tell a ripe coconut from an unripe one, and how to shimmy up a tree to knock them down. He learned how to avoid the nymphs when he went to fetch water from the small waterfall nearby. And he spent a great deal of time searching their small section of beach for useful flotsam.

One morning George wandered down to the beach in time to see one of the dwarves from the next section trying to drag a crate off.

“Hey! Get away from that!” George shouted, running towards him. “That’s ours!”

Dropping the end of the crate, the dwarf waddled away as fast as he could, muttering obscenities. The crate was unmarked, but heavy. George carried it up to the campsite and pried off the lid. Tim came up to find him staring worshipfully at the contents.

“Must have been another storm at sea,” Tim said. “What’ve you got there?”

“Food,” George said. “Glorious food!”

Tim was a little less excited. “I don’t want to burst your bubble, but if this food came from Faery there’s probably a price attached, or a trick to it. The Faery love to play pranks.”

“Just look at this,” George said, holding out a can of peaches.

Taking the can from him, Tim looked at the label and then sent George a pitying glance. “Did you read this?”

George shook his head.

“This can expired more than a year ago,” Tim said gently.

“I don’t care,” George said mutinously. “I’m willing to take a chance for a taste of something that’s not coconut!”

“Sure, buddy, sure. Just calm down. Only one problem,” Tim told him.

George just looked at him.

“We don’t have a can opener.”

Help From Beyond

Prompt: One morning in a restaurant, an old widow and a priest summon a zombie using only a clay tablet.

Gertie eased down onto the cracked vinyl of one of the seats surrounding the table in the center of the empty restaurant. She was a little early, but she’d always subscribed to the belief that better too early than too late.

The whisper of noise from the back didn’t worry her, she’d been expecting it. Father Theo shuffled into the room, looking around nervously.

“Don’t worry, Father,” Gertie told him. “We’re quite alone. The man who owns this place owed me a favour. All he asks is that we clean up any mess.”

“You know I’m not a priest in the traditional sense,” he reminded her.

She shrugged. “But you’re still a priest, even if it is of the old ways.”

He took the seat opposite her. “I have to ask, why here?”

“Here is where Henry died.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Very well. We should get started. Do you have the tablet?”

Wordlessly she pulled a clay tablet from the cloth bag she used as a purse, setting it on the table before him. It was a very special tablet, made from ash and graveyard dirt, blood and tears, and good red clay like the kind God made man out of.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, Father, very sure. If my arthritis wasn’t getting so bad I’d never consider it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“You understand it will not be like it was?”

“I understand.”

“Very well. We shall begin.”

Father Theo pulled the clay tablet a little closer and rested his fingertips lightly on it. He chanted quietly while Gertie watched with rapt attention. Keeping one hand on the tablet, he reached into his robes with the other and pulled out a small glass vial.

At his nod, Gertie took it from him, unstoppered it, then handed it back. Without breaking the chant, he sprinkled the contents on the tablet. There was a flare, a puff of smoke, and the tablet turned to dust.

“It is done,” the priest said solemnly.

“Thank you, Father,” Gertie said. She opened her mouth to say something else, but he shook his head.

“Just remember, if things do not turn out as you wish you have only yourself to blame.” He left the way he’d come, through the back door.

Gertie sat for a moment longer, the impact of what she’d undertaken finally hitting her. It was the way it had to be, she told herself. It was the right thing to do.

Slowly she pushed herself up from the table. Time to go home and see what this morning’s work had wrought.

Everything seemed normal when she reached her tiny house in a row of similar tiny houses. She climbed the steps slowly, pausing a moment at the top to turn and search the quiet street. With a faint shrug, she went inside.

Gertie was almost disappointed when there was nothing unusual to greet her. But then there was a sound from the kitchen that had her head raising up. Gertie smiled.

She made her way to the kitchen and stood in the doorway. “There you are, Henry. A little worse for wear, aren’t you?”

Henry swayed slightly in place where he stood in the pristine kitchen. He was covered with graveyard dirt, his clothes wrinkled. There were rough patches on his bald head, but his hands appeared to be intact.

“Well, you’ll have to do as you are,” Gertie told him. “Now come along, I have a whole list of chores I need you to do.”

The zombie that used to be Henry just moaned, and turned to follow her.

Dream Girl

Prompt: He was stunned – the stranger in front of him looked exactly like the girl he’d been dreaming about.

Roger tossed and turned. In his dream the woman smiled at him, twisted sinuously around him in a seductive dance. She whirled away and then vanished in a puff of smoke. He called to her but she was gone, leaving him filled with longing.

He woke up with a start, staring around wildly as his heart rate began to slow. He was alone in his room, the same as always. With a curse at his own foolishness, he got up and prepared to start his day.

“It’s a little different every time,” he told his friend Ben, “I mean, we meet in different ways and the details change, but it’s always the same woman.”

Ben eyed him for a minute. “This must be some chick to get you so worked up.”

“Yeah, she really is.”

“So don’t leave me hanging, man. What does she look like?”

“She’s tall, but not too tall,” Roger said in a dreamy voice. “Legs up to here and a perfect figure. Long dark hair and eyes you can see the universe in.”

Ben rolled his eyes, but had to ask, “And you have no idea who this chick is?”

“No,” Roger said with a sigh. “But I’d sell my soul to find out.”

The work day seemed to drag on, as was usual in the accounting firm Roger worked for. The end of the day finally came and Roger fought the traffic all the way to his condo.

There was a message on the answering machine from his mother, reminding him of his father’s upcoming 65th birthday party on the weekend. The other two calls were hang-ups, probably telemarketers, he reflected as he fixed himself his habitual after dinner drink.

“What a life,” he mused, as he loosened his tie and make himself comfortable on the couch. “Work, home, the occasional date, and twice a month dinners with the parents.”

The only highlight was the dreams he was having lately. He raised his glass high. “Here’s to you, sweetheart, whoever you are.”

He was working on his second drink when there was a knock on the door. Roger answered the door and just stood there. He was stunned – the stranger in front of him looked exactly like the girl he’d been dreaming about. No, not girl, she was all woman.

“Well, are you just going to stand there staring, or are you going to let me in, Roger?” she asked in a voice that sent a shiver through him.

It never occurred to him to wonder how she knew who he was as he stood back to let her in.

“Who—what—how—” He couldn’t seem to get a coherent sentence out.

“You did say something about selling your soul to meet me, didn’t you?”

He nodded mutely.

“Well, I have your contract right here,” she said, handing him a rolled parchment that seemed to appear out of thin air. Her eyes began to glow red as he eagerly took the pen from her.

A Spell of Trouble

Prompt:
One day, a group of students create a strange creature with the help of a cursed cassette tape and an old teddy bear.

“This is going to be the best Halloween yet,” Neville said gleefully. He was standing with his friends in front of the old, abandoned house.

“If you ask me, it’s a stupid waste of time,” Sally grumbled.

“What, you want to go trick-or-treating like a little kid?”

“Well, no.” Yes, that was exactly what she wanted. Who didn’t want free candy?

“My mom says I’m too old to go begging for candy,” Terry said glumly.

“Mine too,” Frankie chimed in.

“Let’s just do this already,” Corrine said.

Since it was Neville’s idea, he was in charge. “Okay, everyone follow me.”

He led the way around to the back of the house where he’d already loosened the boards over one of the basement windows. Pulling the boards off the rest of the way off, he shone his flashlight into the space and swallowed hard.

“Okay, who’s first in?”

His friends just stared at him. “It was your idea, you first,” Sally said. The others nodded.

“Fine.” With more bravado than he was feeling, he knelt down and shone the flashlight into hole. Turning around, he eased into the space backwards, landing with a slight thump.

“C’mon down,” he called to the others. “There’s a box right under the window. It’s a little shaky, so be careful.”

One by one, the others joined him and when Terry, who was last, hit the box it collapsed under him. He sprang to his feet and assured everyone he was all right.

“Yuck! It stinks down here,” Frankie said.

“Don’t be such a prissy baby,” Corrine told him.

“I’m not prissy!”

“Cut it out guys!” Neville said. “You can argue after we do this.”

“Fine. Tell us what we’re supposed to do.”

“First, we sit in a circle.”

They did so and then he continued. “Now, put the stuff you brought into the middle and then I’ll make up the spell.”

There was a large hunk of black licorice from Terry, a white crystal from Corrine, an audio cassette from Sally, and a teddy bear from Frankie.

“A teddy bear Frankie, really?” Corrine said.

“What’s wrong with a teddy bear? I found it behind the old folks home. It belonged to someone who died.” He lowered his voice. “It’s probably cursed.

“My sister said that cassette is cursed, that’s why I swiped it,” Sally said.

Corrine grinned at her. “I swiped the mine too. My sister’s really into that new age stuff. She’s got a million crystals.”

Not to be outdone by a couple of girls, Terry admitted, “I swiped the licorice from the corner store. I’ll bet old man Potter would have really cursed if he’d seen me.”

“You all did great guys,” Neville assured them. “I can work with this stuff. Just let me think for a minute.”

He studied the objects in front of him with great care, then finally nodded. “Okay, anybody know what time it is?”

Terry looked at his watch. “It’s almost midnight.”

“The witching hour,” Neville said in a dramatic voice. “Time to start.”

He picked up the teddy bear. “Behold the vessel for our spell.” Next he picked up the crystal and worked it into one of the holes in the bear. “This crystal will call a spirit to inhabit the body.” The licorice followed the crystal into the bear. “Black food to feed a black soul.” Pulling the tape from the cassette, he started winding it around the bear. “And the cursed music to bind it all in place.”

Setting the bear in the center of the circle again, he looked at the others. “Are you ready for the next step?” When they all nodded he pulled out his pocket knife. Flipping it open, he jabbed his finger and passed the knife to Corrine, who was sitting beside him. The knife made the rounds, Frankie being the only one to make a noise when it was his turn.

“This part we do together,” Neville said. “We hold our fingers over the bear and let the blood drip onto it.”

As they did so, he finished his make-shift spell. “Let our essence bring our creation to life.”

Five drops of blood hit the bear simultaneously. No one was more surprised than Neville when there was a burst of light from the bear. The group fell back away from the circle.

“Whoa. What just happened?” Sally asked.

“Did you see that?” Terry said excitedly. “That was so cool!”

“Guys?” Frankie said. “The box under the window broke. How are we supposed to get out of here?”

“What’s the rush?” Corrine asked. “We can just—” She was interrupted by a growl from the circle. The teddy bear stood, eyes glowing red, and it appeared to be growing.

The screams went on for a very long time.

Love and Insanity

Prompt:
One night, a nurse has a fit of insanity and finds a creature from the depths of the ocean

“Did you hear about Tammy?”

Millicent lowered her voice and Gladys and Rose leaned forward to hear better.

“Nobody’s heard anything from Tammy in three days,” Gladys said.

Looking around first to make sure no one else was within hearing distance, Millicent whispered, “I heard the madness took her.”

There were gasps from her two friends.

“That’s the fifth one in two weeks,” Gladys said.

“I know, that’s why they’re keeping it quiet. They don’t want to cause a panic.”

“How…how did it…” Rose’s voice trailed off, as though she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

“You know how she seemed to be fixated on birds the last few weeks?”

The other two women nodded.

“Well,” Millicent said with the thrill of someone with a story to tell, “The way I heard it, she decided she was a bird and she tried to fly. Jumped right off the roof of her apartment building.”

“Oh, poor Tammy,” Rose said.

Gladys said nothing, but privately wondered how anyone could be so deluded that they’d think they could fly.

“What really worries me,” Millicent said, sitting back in her chair, “is that it could happen to any of us. They have no idea what causes these fits of insanity, never mind how to stop them.”

“It couldn’t happen to us,” Gladys protested. “Tammy never was very strong. I think you have to be strong to fight off the madness.”

“I hope you’re right,” Rose said with a sigh.

When her shift was over, Gladys left Seaside Memorial Hospital and used the private access to walk down to the ocean. It was her favourite way of unwinding after a long shift, a soothing walk on the beach. She removed her shoes and stockings, breathing a sigh of relief as the cool water soothed her aching feet.

So much sadness, so much death. It was only here that she found peace and comfort. Here where she met her lover.

Over the next several days her friends noticed Gladys seemed happier and more carefree than normal. She seemed almost light hearted as she went about her duties around the hospital.

“What’s put the spring in your step these days?” Millicent asked when they took a break together.

“You’ve met someone, haven’t you?” Rose demanded.

Gladys just smiled mysteriously and sipped her coffee.

“Really?” Millicent asked. “You’ve met someone?”

“Must be someone special if you won’t even share the news with your best friends.”

“He is special,” Gladys admitted. “I met him at the beach. We take long walks together in the moonlight.”

“How romantic,” Rose sighed.

Millicent, however, frowned. “I can’t believe you’d be so foolish as to go walking with some beach bum. What do you know about him?”

Gladys looked at her. “I know that I love him.”

“People don’t just fall in love with people they met at the beach,” Millicent stated. “You need—”

“Oh, don’t listen to her,” Rose advised. “I think it’s wonderful. Are you seeing him again?”

“Of course. He’ll be waiting for me when I get off shift.”

“Be careful,” Millicent said. “Just be careful, that’s all I ask.”

Gladys smiled serenely and went back to her duties.

Millicent stared after her, a worried look on her face.

“What is it?” Rose asked, catching her mood.

“It’s just. . . this all happened so suddenly, and after what happened to Tammy. . .”

“You think she’s making this lover up?”

“I don’t know. But I can’t help feel that everything is not what it seems.”

The following day, Millicent’s premonition proved to be correct. In the morning Gladys was found dead on the beach, wrapped in a giant Portuguese man o' war as though in a lover’s embrace. The cause of death was ruled as a fit of insanity.

Dream Catcher

Prompt:
Every so often, people have to empty out their dream catchers.

Memengwaa took three deep breaths – one for courage, one for guidance, and one for the spirit. This test of her abilities was the most important event of her life. It would decide whether she was worthy of being a handmaid to Asibaikaashi or merely a failure, good for nothing but weaving baskets.

She gathered the materials herself, as was proper, taking great care in their selection. First was the thinnest of branches from the red willow, bent into a circle to represent the shape of the world. Next, the sinew from a deer her father had killed that she pounded into fibres herself. Finally, the feathers, not from a bird of prey, as most would choose, but from a crow for luck.

Her fingers were nimble and quick and as she wove the webbing inside the circle she hummed under her breath; not, as one might expect, a song of praise or supplication, but a simple lullaby. Carefully she attached the feathers, one by one. At last Memengwaa was done. She sat back on her heels and looked at the five women of the Spider’s Council who stood in a circle around her.

“You have done well,” the eldest told her.

“But now comes the true test,” the youngest said, She took the dreamcatcher from Memengwaa and left the circle, disappearing into the night.

“You may take your rest now,” the eldest said. “We shall see in the morning if you are worthy of Asibaikaashi.”

In the morning Memengwaa was once again kneeling in the center of the circle. The youngest council member held the dream catcher.

“The child who was given the dreamcatcher as part of the test has been having evil dreams for weeks now. Last night he slept peacefully.” She handed the dreamcatcher to the elder.

The elder looked at it closely and nodded in satisfaction. She passed it to Memengwaa.

“Now you must release the dreams, as is necessary for a true web of Asibaikaashi.”

Confident now, Memengwaa ran her hands around the willow holding the web, then traced a pattern within the web itself, following the intricate lines. A whiff of black smoke spiralled up into the night air.

“Welcome, Memengwaa, newest handmaid of Asibaikaashi.”

The council pulled her to her feet and helped her dress in her new, ceremonial garb. The entire tribe was invited to join them in the celebration.

Much later into the night Memengwaa approached the elder who was seated near the communal fire, smoking a pipe.

“Honoured elder,” she began. “I would ask a question of you if I may.”

“Sit. Ask.”

Memengwaa sat down beside her, but found she needed to gather her thoughts first.

“You are wondering what happens if we do not release the dreams.”

Memengwaa looked at her in astonishment. “How did you know?”

The elder chuckled. “It is the question every one of us has asked.” She took a puff of her pipe, releasing the smoke into the night air. “An unemptied dreamcatcher becomes bloated with evil thoughts and dreams. Its purpose becomes reversed – no longer will it protect from ill will and dreams, but instead will attract them.”

“But I thought the sun’s rays dispersed the evil dreams.”

“That was a story made to pander to those not of the tribes. A clever tale to make profit from our traditions.” The elder took another puff of her pipe. “But those dreamcatchers have not been blessed by Asibaikaashi.”

“And it was she who taught us how to release the dreams.”

“And that, young Memengwaa, is the true purpose of the handmaids. To empty the dreamcatchers.”

Giving Her Credit

Prompt:
Your spouse has left you but forgotten to take his/her credit card. You're not poor so how would you use the card in ways that would really upset your ex?


“He did what?”

“He left me,” Maisie sniffled into the phone. “I came home from work and he was packing a suitcase.”

“But . . . I don’t understand. You and Jonathan . . .” Audrey’s voice lowered. “Was it another woman?”

“No, I could have understood if it was another woman—”

“Another man?”

“No! He said—he said he’d been feeling restless for the past year. He thinks we rushed into marriage and should have done more living or something before we settled down.”

“Rushed into it? You’ve been married for ten years!”

“Well not any longer,” Maisie said, through a fresh wave of tears. “He said he needs time on his own to think things through.”

“Time to have a good time, if you ask me,” Audrey said, angry for her friend’s sake.

“You really think so?”

“I was always all about Jonathan. He never deserved someone as sweet and caring as you, Maisie. And he never gave you enough credit for all you did for him, for just being you.”

Shocked, Maisie was speechless for a moment. “But . . . I thought you liked Jonathan.”

Audrey sighed over the phone. “I put up with him for your sake. You’re my friend, Maisie, and you cared about him.”

“I did,” Maisie sniffled. “I do. Audrey, what am I supposed to do now?”

“If it was me, I’d be getting my mad on and making a list of ways to put the screws to him.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could do that.”

“I know, Maisie,” Audrey said with another sigh. “And that’s part of your problem.”

Audrey offered to come over to keep her company, but Maisie wanted time to herself to wallow in self pity. She couldn’t very well do that with Audrey, especially not considering Audrey’s opinion of Jonathan.

But she didn’t wallow for as long as she thought she would. She wandered through the empty house, thinking of Jonathan and their life together.

They’d met in college and were married before they graduated. Maisie had planned on continuing with post-graduate school but Jonathan got a job offer in a distant city and it was put on the back-burner. Then he decided they needed a house and once again her education was put on hold.

Now that she really thought about it, pretty much everything she wanted that didn’t dovetail with Jonathan’s plans got put off or shunted aside. Like kids. Every time she brought up the idea of kids, he had a different excuse as to why the time wasn’t right.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized Audrey was right. It was all about Jonathan, all the time. Maisie was definitely starting to get her mad on.

Jonathan told her he’d be back at some point to pick up the rest of his things, and would she be a dear and pack his clothes in boxes for him? She packed so neatly for him whenever he had to go on a business trip. She’d pack for him all right, she’d pack real good.

Grabbing several trash bags from the kitchen, she stalked up to the bedroom. Stuffing his expensive suits into the garbage bags, along with shirts, shoes, and ties, gave her a certain grim satisfaction. Especially when she dumped all his remaining bath products – shampoo, aftershave, cologne, skin cream – in the bags with them.

Maisie glanced around the bedroom to make sure she hadn’t missed anything and spotted something on the floor near Jonathan’s night stand. It was his gold card. It must have fallen when he took the phone charger.

A smile blossomed on Maisie’s face. What better way to put the screws to him than to run up his credit bill? And better yet, she could buy stuff he’d never approve of.

Still smiling, Maisie left the bedroom to start making her list.

Zombie Days

Prompt:
One night, some children find a zombie hunter while searching for a doctor.

“Sissy, time to wake up.” Jeremy poked at the lump under the frayed blanket.

The lump let out a groan, but didn’t stir.

“Sissy?” Jeremy tried pulling at the blanket. It was yanked back out of his hand.

“Go away.”

“But we’re hungry,” Lucy said, drawing out the word into a long, whiny note. She clutched her blankie with both hands.

“Leave me alone!”

Jeremy and Lucy looked at each other. This had never happened before. Sissy always made them breakfast.

“I think she’s sick,” Lucy whispered.

Jeremy looked back towards the lump on the bed that showed no sign of moving and his shoulders sagged. “C’mon Luce. We’ll find our own breakfast.”

Lucy popped her thumb into her mouth and followed as her brother led the way to the dingy room that served as the kitchen, dragging her blanket behind her.

The kitchen didn’t hold much, a small battered table with two mismatched chairs, and a dented refrigerator that wouldn’t have worked even if the electricity was working. Sissy kept what food they had in there to keep it safe from mice.

There wasn’t much in it now, but tucked in the back Jeremy found a box of cereal.

“Here,” he told Lucy, who’d climbed up on one of the chairs. “We can have this.”

“Not supposed to eat out of the box,” she said around her thumb.

“We’re going to have to this time,” Jeremy told her. “It’ll be okay, it’s just this one time.”

They polished off the cereal and then just sat there looking at each other.

“Do you really think Sissy is sick?” Jeremy asked.

Lucy nodded. “She smells just like that girl did that we found last week. She said that girl was sick. What are we gonna do Jeremy?”

“You’re going to stay here with Sissy and I’m going to go find someone to help.”

“Nuh uh! I’m not staying by myself.”

“You won’t be by yourself, Sissy’ll be here.”

“I’m not staying. I’ll follow you.”

Jeremy knew she’d probably do just that. “Okay, you can come with me. But you’re not allowed to complain about being tired or anything.”

“I won’t,” Lucy promised.

Jeremy was actually glad of his sister’s company. It made him feel braver. He’d never been outside without Sissy. She’d warned them it was too dangerous out here, especially for little kids, that there were a lot of bad people who’d want to hurt them.

But she’d also told him how to tell the good people from the bad. Bad people had sores on them and smelled. And they walked funny. Sometimes they made a moaning sound. Good people may not be clean, but they didn’t have sores. And they walked and talked normal.

Jeremy was starting to get worried when he spotted the man. He had a backpack on and moved quietly through the rubble. He was still making up his mind about the best way to approach him when Lucy knocked over a can.

The man’s head snapped around and he was moving towards them before the can finished rolling down the slope of refuse.

“What are you kids doing out here by yourselves?” he asked.

“We’re looking for a doctor,” Lucy told him. “Are you a doctor?”

“Is one of you sick?” He looked at them sharply.

“Sissy is,” Lucy told him.

“Sissy looks after us,” Jeremy added. The man looked okay, and he didn’t smell like the bad people.

“How long has Sissy been sick?”

“She wouldn’t get up this morning,” Jeremy said. “We had to get our own breakfast.”

“Maybe you should take me to Sissy.”

When they got to the apartment they could hear Sissy moaning – it was a scary sound.

“You kids wait here,” the man said. “I’ll see what I can do to help Sissy.”

Jeremy and Lucy went into the kitchen and sat at the table. For once, Lucy wasn’t being a chatterbox. After a few minutes, the moaning in the other room stopped. The man came to the kitchen door.

“Did you help Sissy?” Lucy asked.

“I’m sorry kids,” the man said gravely. “But Sissy didn’t make it.”

Lucy’s eyes filled with tears. Jeremy felt like crying too, but he was a big boy and big boys didn’t cry. “Who’s going to look after us?” he asked.

The man heaved a sigh. “I guess you’ll have to come with me,” he told them. “I’ll take you to a place where there are other people. You’ll be safe there.”

However, it was a long way to the sanctuary, and the zombie population was growing daily. But with luck they’d make it, and in a few years there’d be two new zombie hunters to add to the roster.

Vampires In Space

Prompt:
Write a 650 word story in the crime genre. It's about a vampire and should include coloring pencils. Also use the sentence 'I can't see you.' Bonus prompt: The story takes place in space.

Vlad stood at the viewport gazing out at the stars streaming past. It was a shame he couldn’t have done this centuries ago. The space station was the perfect environment for a vampire. There was no sunlight to worry about and with hundreds of people coming and going on a daily basis there was an unlimited supply of food. And as an added bonus, even those who believed in vampires would never believe in a vampire in space.

He sighed and turned away from the window. He wasn’t here for the view, he had a job to do and a client waiting for results. Consulting the slip of paper he pulled from his pocket, he glanced at the designations beside each door as he wandered along the curving corridor. A7-12G, that was the one he was looking for.

Casually, Vlad strolled slightly past his target to the next view port. Any moment now . . . Right on cue a klaxon sounded. Vlad faded into a white mist as the emergency crews hurried down the corridor.

When the way was clear again, Vlad solidified and went to the door he’d marked. He’d already determined the occupant was in one of the inner rings at work, the way should be clear to get what he came for.

Back on Earth he could have stayed in his vaporous form and slipped under the door. But here in space the doors were air tight. Deftly he attached the bypass to the keypad and in seconds had the door sliding open.

“Too easy,” he murmured.

Slipping inside he glanced around. “Where would he hide it?” Vlad murmured.

The Spartan quarters didn’t leave many options. He ran his gloved hands lightly over the shelves of the single bookcase, a tasteful faux wood, but found no hidden compartments and the sensor built into his left glove stayed silent.

Pursing his lips he took a second look around, studying the artwork on the walls.

“A wall safe? Seems a little obvious.”

Still, he checked behind the pictures on the walls and sure enough, one of them hid a safe. It took only a matter of seconds to open it, but what he sought was not there.

With a growl of frustration he shut it again.

Moving into the sleeping area, Vlad checked the artwork in there for a second safe and even went through the closet and dresser. Still nothing. The drawers in the night stand caught his eye.

“He wouldn’t be so obvious, would he?”

Vlad’s eyes widened as he opened the drawer. What he sought lay nestled inside. Not trusting it could be that easy, he waved his left hand over the box but detected no sensors, no trip wires, no pressure plates.

With a huff he scooped up what he came for. With preternatural speed, he left the sleeping area and was back in the corridor before the foot traffic resumed.

Vlad made his way to the landing bay where his client was waiting.

“Do you have it?” she asked as he reached the rendezvous point.

“Yes, I have it right here.” Vlad patted his breast pocket. “Where are you? I can’t see you.”

A dim light flickered on, illuminating the young blonde woman. She held out a credit strip. “The agreed upon price.”

Vlad took the strip and passed over the box he’d retrieved. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” she said, opening the package to check its contents.

“I looked in the box, but all that’s inside are colouring pencils. Is that really what you were looking for?”

“They’ve been in my family for years,” she said, pulling one of them out. “They’re made of real wood.”

Suddenly, she lunged forward, burying the pencil in Vlad’s chest. His look of astonishment turned to dust along with the rest of him.

“Wood’s been hard to come by in the last few years, but even the wood of a colouring pencil can is enough to dust a vampire.”

True Believer

Corvis Three was small, as colony planets went, and fairly new having only been established fifty years ago. There was the subsistent farming, of course, and a large mining operation that was the main focus of the settlement. It boasted two spaceports, one for travelers and one for shipping only, and one city which contained the bulk of the population.

It was a minor colony, in the grand scheme of things, but a great deal of time, effort, and money had gone into its creation. So when an asteroid appeared to be on a collision course with it, there was a bit of concern.

There was plenty of time for debate on how to handle the impending disaster. The arguments went on for days, but in the end it was decided that the most fiscally responsible action would be to abandon Corvis Three and let nature take its course.

Once the course of action was decided on, the evacuation was done in a timely and orderly fashion. Cargo ships carried away the equipment deemed too valuable to leave behind, and transport ships collected the disgruntled colonists. All but one.

The archivist refused to leave. As far as importance went the archives was at the bottom of the list. The colony hadn’t been established long enough for there to be any significant historical records. All of its noteworthy information had been digitalized. But the archivist refused to leave his post.

“This is my life’s work,” he told them. “I’ll not leave it behind.”

“The archives have been obsolete for ages,” they told them. “Nobody cares about it anyway.”

“I care,” he said, leveling them a look. “I’m staying and that’s the end of it.”

Sitting on the steps of the archives, he watched the last of the ships leave. When they were no more than a speck in the sky he got up, dusted himself off, and went back inside with a sigh of satisfaction.

“They’re all gone,” he called out. “It’s safe to come out now.”

There was a scuffling noise, then a short, squat figure pushed its way out from behind the file cabinet in the corner. Several slender figures with gossamer wings swooped down from the light fixture. Several diminutive figures sporting red caps sidled out from behind the bookcase.

“You sure that’s the last of ‘em?” the gnome asked.

The archivist gave a shrug. “You would know better than I. You’re the ones that orchestrated this exodus.”

“Aye, and a long and hard campaign it was.”

“We’re safe! We’re free!” the fairies chorused, swooping around the gnome’s head.

“Go away now,” the gnome said irritably. “I’ll deal with you later.”

“They don’t mean any harm,” the archivist said mildly. “They’re just excited.”

“They’re an excitable bunch, ‘tis true,” the gnome agreed. “What will you do now?”

“Me? What do you mean?”

“You’re the only human left here and as such we decided you should be in charge.”

“In charge? Of all of you Fae? I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Here,” the gnome said, reaching into his pocket. “Have an onion.”

Afterlife Opportunities

She wasn’t happy about it, but she’d been recalled to life for a reason. Janet looked up, blinked, and frowned. Still frowning, she sat up and looked around. This was not where she expected to be. And why was she alone? Where was the necromancer, or at the very least his acolytes? This was totally unacceptable.

This was not what she’d signed up for.

The recruiter for Afterlife Opportunities had assured her of a one year minimum stay in the afterlife before she’d be called back to receive an assignment. It had only been six weeks, at most. She’d barely had time to acclimatize herself to being dead before she felt the tug of the summons back.

“Slipshod business if you ask me,” she muttered, getting up and dusting herself off.

The Awakening Rooms in the brochure had been bright and airy, with billowy white curtains wafting in a gentle breeze and clean white sheets on the beds. This room was dingy and dark, like something you’d find in a third rate hotel. And it smelled.

She’d been told trained professionals would oversee every step of her re-animation, and more trained staff would be available to answer any questions she might have. Afterlife Opportunities employed only the best of necromancers and acolytes.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Obviously that one was a lie too.

Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to brush the graveyard dirt completely from her clothes. The same clothes she’d been buried in, she realized, lips tightening. Where was her pristine Awakening Robe? Where was the luxurious soaker tub filled with scented water to wash away the afterlife?

Janet gave up trying to brush her clothing clean and started for the door.

“Somebody better have a good explanation,” she muttered.

The door opened onto a long hallway dotted with many other doors. It really did seem like she was in some kind of run down hotel. She considered knocking on one of the other doors but decided her best bet would probably be to go down to the lobby. There had to at least be a reception desk down there.

After eyeing the decrepit looking elevator, Janet opted to take the stairs. Fortunately she was only on the third floor, but she grew more and more annoyed with every step she took.

The lobby was as run down as the rest of the place, but at least there were people.

“Excuse me,” Janet said trying to get the attention of a bellhop. “I wonder if—”

“Lemme guess,” the bellhop said wearily. “You got questions. Well lady, I don’t got any answers, I just work here. You want to ask questions, you gotta go to the desk.”

Janet looked toward where he was pointing and saw the rather long line snaking away from the reception desk. With a sigh of resignation, she went over and queued up. It was the slowest moving line in the history of lines, but at last Janet reached the desk.

“Do you work for Afterlife Opportunities?” Janet as the young man seated at the desk. Then she went on before he could answer, “I’d like to lodge a formal complaint.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, not looking sorry at all. “I only do the checking in and checking out. If you want to lodge a complaint you have to go over to that line over there.”

Janet looked to where he pointed. The line was easily three times longer than the one she’d just been in.

“Just kill me now,” she muttered.

“I believe that’s already been done. Next.”

The Collector's Hoard

Okay, are you really that surprised that once again I have nothing to report? I mean seriously. But unlike last Sunday, at least I've got a prompt story for you today. Once again it's a first line prompt and I freely admit I was influenced by television for this one. At first I was going to make it a creepy serial killer thing where he turns his victims into dolls (Criminal Minds), but I figured that would be too obvious. So instead I made use of all those hours spent watching Hoarders.

*~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

As a child, he’d been told dolls were for girls. Henry didn’t really believe this, but he came to realize it didn’t matter what he believed, it was what his father believed that mattered. It was a lesson that did not come easily though.

The first time he asked for a doll he was five. Naturally he didn’t understand why his father got angry at the request. Nor did he understand why the logic of “then I want to be a girl” was met with a spanking.

It was about a year later, after he’d started school, that the subject of dolls came up again. Apparently dolls weren’t just for girls, at school boys were allowed to play with them too. But Henry was a bright boy and knew better than to say anything about it to his father. Instead he traded his red dump truck to the little girl next door for her second hand baby doll.

When the doll was eventually discovered hidden in the back of his closet, Henry was not just yelled at but slapped across the face when he dared to protest it being taken away. His mother had gotten yelled at this time too, for raising a pansy-assed wimp. The doll had been torn limb from limb and tossed into the trash.

The next time, his father found the rag doll he’d made himself. It wasn’t much of a doll, but Henry had been proud of the painstaking work – gathering the scraps, learning to sew by watching his mother’s quilting group. This time his father built a fire in the fireplace and made him throw the doll into the flames. He had to stay watching the fire until there was nothing left of the doll but ash.

“You’re lucky I didn’t make you eat the damned thing to teach you a lesson,” his father growled when Henry couldn’t hold back a sniffle.

Which is exactly what he did when he found Henry’s paper doll family between the pages of one of his school books. Fortunately they weren’t large paper dolls, and Henry just sicked them up again later that night. But this time, much to his father’s satisfaction and his mother’s relief, Henry appeared to have learned the lesson.

By the time he finished middle school, it seemed he'd forgotten his desire for a doll, and thanks to an adequate showing on the high school football team, his father no longer harbored worries about him being a sissy-pants.

As soon as Henry graduated high school he got a job at the city chemical plant and moved out of his parents house into a studio apartment. At last he felt like a real man who could do as he pleased. The first thing he bought himself was a doll. But not just any doll, a porcelain “fairy” doll with blond ringlets, blue eyes, and gossamer wings. He placed her on the bookcase opposite the door so she was the first thing he saw when he came into the apartment.

Over time she was joined by many others – Betsy Wetsy and Chatty Cathy, Barbies and Big Sisters, apple-headed dolls and rag dolls. Henry gained a reputation amongst the thrift stores and pawn shops as a collector, and these establishments would often set aside dolls for him. Of course he bought them all. Soon there was very little space in his apartment that wasn’t covered in dolls.

The years passed and Henry was content, working in the factory so he could afford more dolls, enjoying his dolls when he wasn’t working. If space was becoming tight in his tiny apartment, well, really, he lived alone. How much space did he really need?

Just as Henry was contemplating cutting back on his collecting so he could afford a bigger place to live, salvation and tragedy came at the same time. His parents died in a fiery car crash, leaving him the mortgage-free family home.

Without rent to worry about, Henry was able to indulge in dolls he previous had to pass over. He went to yard sales and rummage sales, but eschewed the internet as too impersonal a source for his beloved dolls.

Time passed, his doll collection grew. Most of them stayed safely sealed in their boxes, only the favourites made it to the special, custom made display case in the living room. Several more graced the bookcases lining the hallways, narrowing the space so it was all but impassable. And still Henry bought dolls. They filled his furniture, his closets. his basement. They narrowed his living space but still he bought more dolls.

The day of the earth quake, communication grids were overwhelmed with family and friends checking up on each other, making sure each other were safe. Henry had no friends. He was quiet and kept to himself at work – his co-workers thought he was an odd duck, but he was a good worker.

It took several days before it registered he hadn’t been into work recently, and two more days of calls to his house being unanswered before anyone thought to contact the police. When the police forced the door open an avalanche of dolls greeted them. It took days for them clear a path through the house, although by the time they did the smell alone told them Henry’s fate. They found him buried in his dolls, trapped under the custom made display case that held his favorites.

Silent Treatment

Once again I got little writing done other than my prompt story, which once again ran a little long so we’ll just get right to it. The only thing I might mention, this was not written to the current prompt but one I had in reserve. If I don’t get a story written to the current one next week I’ll put up a new prompt.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The boy hadn’t spoken since his twin had gone. Not that he’d really spoken before that. He and his brother communicated with each other using grunts and growls, they didn’t communicate with us at all.

The disappearance was a complete mystery. They’d been kept in a locked room, for their own safety, so he couldn’t have just wandered off. Someone must have taken him, but the remaining boy wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell us who.

The boys had been found up on the mountain by a group sent to retrieve the group of survivalists who were conducting an experiment on total isolation. It was to be a ten year experiment to see if the group could survive on their own without any outside assistance or technology. They staked out a section of the mountain and the rangers were to steer clear.

For the most part the group seemed no worse than any other back to nature group. But after several harsh winters in a row when game became scarce, the university that was sponsoring the group became concerned and requested an official check on them.

The two rangers who drew the short straws made their way up the mountain and were back down in the same day. They were unable to do a head count of the group – when they reached the edge of the group’s territory, they were met by several angry, bearded, emaciated figures carrying spears.

Not knowing what to expect at the end of the tenth year, the university sent an entire team to let the group know their time was up. This time there were no spear carrying figures, in fact, there was no one at all to meet them. They reached the main camp without seeing a single soul.

Although there were signs it had once been used by a large group, it was obvious no one had been there in several years. There was, however, a trail leading away through the woods and they followed it to a cave where they found the two boys.

This was obviously where the group had moved to. Judging by the detritus left behind, they’d been living there for several years. There were bundles of spears leaning against the walls along with heaps of other crude tools, remnants of cloth and animal skins piled haphazardly. Off to the side was a pile of bones that had been gnawed clean. One of the rangers accompanying the group picked one of the bones up for a closer look and let it drop with a shudder. It looked too human for comfort.

In the back of the cave’s large chamber they found the two boys, curled together like puppies in a nest of bone, animal skins, and leaves. They were naked and filthy, scratched and bruised and bloody. And totally wild. They snapped and snarled at the team and had to be forcibly subdued.

The team could find nothing to show where the adults had gone. Surely they wouldn’t have just left their children behind. There were no graves, no bodies, no trails to indicate where they might have headed. The boys certainly weren’t talking. And though they were badly emaciated, they wouldn’t touch the food they were offered.

By the time the team got back with the only survivors of the experiment, it was late. The man in charge made the decision to keep the boys in one of the utilitarian bedrooms in the basement of the university, usually reserved for grad students pulling all nighters. The windows were barred and the doors locked – it seemed the safest place. In the morning they’d call in a bevy of experts to deal with them.

But in the morning, there was only one boy in the room and the mystery as to where he’d disappeared to was as strange as the mystery of what happened to the group. One last time they questioned the remaining boy. He opened his mouth, they leaned forward to hear his answer, and he let out a very satisfied belch.

Mightier Than the Sword

Other than the story I'm sharing below, I didn't get a whole lot of writing done last week. So, since the story ran kind of long anyway, that's all you're getting today.

This story came from the prompt I tried in place of the actual prompt a couple of weeks ago, then abandoned because I couldn't get it off the ground. Looks like I finally figured it out. :-D

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The pen hadn't been worth stealing. Well, maybe for somebody else, but not as far as I’m concerned. I gotta tell you, I’m sorry I did. But maybe I should start at the beginning, then you’ll understand.

I was trying to turn over a new leaf, see, but growing up on the streets the way I did as a kid leaves a kind of aura around a person, you know what I mean? Anyways, the only legit jobs I could get were pretty much scraping the bottom the barrel, and I didn’t want to stay there the rest of my life.

So there I was, contemplating my future, and Marty got this bright idea to go visit this psychic he knows. Marty was always getting bright ideas which should have warned me what it might lead to ‘cause Marty’s bright ideas generally get us into a fix.

You gotta understand, I don’t hold with all that woo-woo stuff, but I went with Marty to see the aunt of his friend’s cousin’s brother’s wife. She has this little table set up in the back of a pawn shop over on the north side of town.

Anyway, she starts out telling me the usual stuff like, “You lost your father when you were very young,” and “You are having financial problems.” – no brainer stuff, you know? I mean, I never knew my father, and I wouldn’t have been there if I wasn’t down on my luck. Then she finishes up with stuff about how my luck’s about to change, and she sees money in my future. Wraps the whole thing up by telling me to remember the pen is mightier than the sword. Where do they get this crap?

Afterwards, me and Marty went to Checky’s Bar for a drink and run into Butch. He tells us about these gems they’re gonna have at the museum, put them on display or something. His girlfriend’s brother’s cousin’s girlfriend works there and said the gems are there now, in a store room, and security won’t be in place for two more days.

Marty’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “She was right! Goddamn she was right!”

“Who was right?” Butch asked.

“That fortune teller we just saw.” He turned to me. “She done told you your luck’s about to change, and you got money in your future. This must be what she was talkin’ about.”

Well, it sounded right to me. Next thing I know we’re creeping though the museum, breaking in was dead easy, looking for that store room. Marty was right in front of me and stopped dead – I almost ran into him.

“What is it?” I hissed.

With a grin he pointed at a display we were about to pass. The light was so low it took me a minute to figure out what was behind the glass, but when I did I had to grin too. It was a display of fancy pens – some collection someone had donated. Only took a second to crack open the case. I gotta say, most of those pens were pretty weird looking, but I picked one that looked like it was made of blue stone. I like blue.

“The pen is mightier than the sword,” I whispered, holding it up. Then I stuck it in my pocket, for good luck, don’t you know.

Turns out the pen was the only thing we came out with. Butch tripped an alarm while we were still looking for the store room so we hot footed it outta there. It was too late to go back and have another beer at Checky’s, so we parted ways and I headed for home. Home at that point was a one room basement apartment over on Cedarview.

I hadn’t even been home long enough to crack open a cold one when I got the urge to pull out that pen and have a look at it. Then I thought to try it out, see if it still worked, and pulled out a blank notebook. Well, next thing I know, I had that notebook filled with scribbling, then another one and another.

Marty came by to see why I hadn’t been around and he started reading those notebooks, I had about a dozen of 'em by then - who knew he was a reader? I was only half listening when he told me how good my story was, so he ups and gives the notebooks to his brother’s sister-in-law’s cousin’s kid to type up, then he sends it to some publisher on my behalf.

Well, you know the rest. Instant best seller. Instant fame. Now here I am in a high rise apartment, all the money in the world, and I can’t enjoy a minute of it ‘cause I can’t stop writing. I’m pretty sure this pen is cursed. I’ve tried to stop, believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried throwing that damned pen away but it always reappears.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful pen, but I sure wish I’d left it in that display case.

Goblins

I’m not liking all the non-writing I’ve been doing lately, and I’d really like to do something about that this week. But you know as well as I that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

I can’t even use the weather as an excuse for my lack of ambition. Or at least I can’t blame the lack of sun. We had quite a few sunny days last week. And then the temperature took a nosedive and we got SNOW on the weekend.

Snow. In May. Makes me glad I listened to my neighbour – I was thinking of getting my garden started last week but she told me to hold off for a couple of weeks. There are a lot of people who didn’t wait and it remains to be seen whether the shoots coming up in their gardens will survive or not.

The other thing I can’t use as an excuse for not writing is reading. I finished my last Nora Roberts book on Monday or Tuesday and haven’t read anything since. I was supposed to get a couple of books I’d ordered on Thursday but . . . nothing. I’ve got two more scheduled to arrive at the end of the month, but I won’t hold my breath.

It’s not like I don’t have other books to read, I just don’t wanna.

Looks like I need to give myself another stern talking to. And this time I need to listen

Once again we’ll see how it goes.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

After the goblin invasion we realized all the dark lords were dead.

It’s easy to forget what life was like before the coming of the dark lords. Heroes were few and far between, there weren’t enough to go around. The woods were filled with ogres and there was a troll under every bridge. Goblins were thick as thieves but more meddlesome. Life was hard.

Then the dark lords came with their promises and magic. They would gladly drive back the ogres for us, happily clear the trolls out so it was safe to travel across the bridges again. They could control the goblin hoards. But of course there was a price to pay. If only we had known how that price would increase over the years.

At first it was just a few gold coins, a sheep or two, maybe a goat – certainly not as much as the trolls and ogres took. Likewise the occasional request for a virgin seemed reasonable enough if it meant they no longer had to worry about dragons.

They were called dark lords for a reason, however. They demanded complete obedience, total subjugation. Before long we were nothing more than slaves, toiling for their gain, living and dying at their whim. We’d made a poor bargain.

They built a tower of black stone where they lived and worked their magic. Those they considered most useful were forced to live in the lower level to serve their needs, the rest of us were allowed to bring our tribute and return to our homes.

But the thing about a small group with a great deal of power is that there’s never enough power to go around and each individual thinks they should be the one in charge. It was bad enough the yoke we were under threatened to break us, but we were also expected to pick a lord and swear allegiance to him, aiding him in the struggle for power.

We began to meet in secret and we formed a plan to set them against each other. A nudge here, a whisper there, and they began to look at each other with suspicion. Those dwelling in the tower reported the dark lords were becoming increasingly paranoid, and soon enough even the servants were banished from the tower.

There were several disappearances, unearthly screams heard from within the tower, but we saw no sign of the dark lords for several weeks. Then the goblins came and we knew the dark lords had killed each other off. We would have congratulated ourselves for a job well done, but we were too busy defending ourselves from the goblins.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Wordage Report

Wandering Wizards – 0 words
I cannot tell a lie, I got zero words written last week. None. Nada. Zip.

Weekly Prompt – 442 words
Considering the amount of time I sat with my lap top on my lap to work on this thing, I would have expected a better story. But at least I made the effort.

New Prompt
Use this as your first line:
The text message simply said 'very clever'.

Happy Writing!

The Clouds of Grathos IV

As you might have guessed, last week was not a good week writing-wise. Or anything-wise really. But it was but it was and I’m making neither apologies for neither. Things happen. Or don’t, as the case may be.

I missed my fortune telling post, which is a little disappointing on my part because I had all the research done, I just didn’t have the desire to put it all together.

I seem to be swinging back and forth between reading too much and gaming too much. Now, writers should read, that’s a given, but they should read a variety of things and I seem to be fixated on Nora Roberts lately. Mostly her romances. Sometimes her romantic suspense.

But the good news there is I’m currently on the last of one of her quartets right now and Indigo/Chapters won’t be delivering any more until May 7th. Obviously they’re using Canada Post again instead of UPS. But this also means I’ll be forced to read something else, like something from my to-be-read bookcase.

We won’t even discuss the gaming. It’s just pure escapism.

I’ve been good at giving myself a stern talking to when it comes to my lack of, well, anything, but I’m also pretty good at ignoring myself. I seem to be productive one day, then a slacker for two. This week’s goal is to be productive at least every other day.

We’ll see how it goes.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The cloud was talking, and you know what that means. Yeah, that’s right. The weather control system was off its grid again. I’ve been working the night shift so I’ve been sleeping during the day, or I would have noticed it sooner.

Of course one of the other scientists stationed on Grathos IV could have mentioned it, or left a report or something, but Garth and Sandy enjoyed talking to clouds, Richard and Sven were too focused on their work to notice, and Kate, Beckett, and Taylor just didn’t care. Of course the clouds rarely talked to them.

We’ve put in seven of our twelve month stretch here. It would have been well into our eighth month if we hadn’t had to sit around in orbit while the microbiologists and biochemists argued about whether or not the virology in the ecosystem of the planet was safe for humans. Ultimately they decided it was harmless, and we were green to go.

Once we get the weather stable enough to sustain itself without the grid Grathos IV will be ready for settlement. It should have been ready long before this, but every time we shut down the grid we get talking clouds, or worse singing clouds.

It’s a little disconcerting to venture outside and have them whispering above you. Sometimes they just carry on monologues, sometimes they ask questions, but more often than not they offer advice. It was amusing in the beginning, but not so much when they start interfering in our personal business.

They see everything, you understand. They’re clouds, vapor. There’s no locking them out, no hiding behind closed doors. They know everything we do, even things we hide from the others. And they like to share, so there are no secrets on Grathos IV.

It’s not like they’re sentient, any more than the rocks, grass and water was, at least that’s what the environmental specialist claims. We managed to silence all the voices except for the ones in the clouds. But we’ll get them too, eventually.

Well, better get back to work.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Wordage Report

Wandering Wizards – ? words
I tinkered around a little, but my heart wasn’t really in it last week. Hopefully I’ll to better this week.

Weekly Prompt – 349 words
I actually like the way this little prompt story turned out. If I can figure out a way to expand it at little, I might even try marketing it.

New Prompt
Use this as your first line:
After the goblin invasion we realized all the dark lords were dead.

Happy Writing!

Camilla

Will wonders never cease – I got this post up on time.

It’s really hard to focus these days – on anything, not just writing. I’m plugging away, putting in time, but it all feels off.

I made the mistake of bringing my lap top out of the office one night, and I used it in the living room for the next couple of days. It was kind of frightening how easy it was to slide back into my old habit of mindless gaming.

It took a couple of days but I finally clued in to what I was doing. It wasn’t exactly an epiphany, more like a wakeup call. It occurred to me that once the isolation orders are lifted, the daughter will be going back to work in her office and we’ll be looking after the granddaughter during the day, unless the powers that be finish out the school year, which is highly unlikely.

I don’t want to look back on this time and think about all the time I wasted. So I thought I’d get a jump on my prompt story and pulled out my notebook to write in long hand. Once I started it came fairly quickly, but when I was trying to figure out how to wrap it up I got all kinds of ideas to expand it into a really cool, urban mythology story.

I haven’t finished that one yet, so the story you’re getting below is the original. But it got at least one of my wheels back on track again. I wrote the prompt story one day and worked on Wandering Wizards another day. Yesterday I threw myself a pity party and didn’t do much of anything except wallow. I guess every day can’t be a winner.

But it’s a start.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

People called her Camilla – not that that’s her name. She appeared without fanfare, wandering the streets pulling a small battered wagon (that might once have been red) behind her, picking through the trash left on the curb

Treasures, she called them, the bits and pieces she found. Some of the treasure found its way to the junk store or pawn shop, the rest was added to her own vast collection. No one knew where she came from. Within a few weeks it was as though she’d always been wandering the streets with her wagon.

The old men who sat gossiping on the steps of the brownstone claimed she was a lost heiress. One day she took a wander on the wrong side of the tracks and was mugged, lost her memory from the trauma. There’s a big reward waiting, if only they could figure out who her family was.

The hookers on the corner said she was a former exotic dancer. She had that look about her. When the titty bar she worked in shut down she had nowhere to go – thought herself too good for their line of work.

The social workers who made periodic forays into the neighborhood figured she was just another lost soul, down on her luck. Maybe she had mental issues and could no longer afford her meds, or maybe she’d escaped from an abusive relationship. It didn’t really matter. To them she was just another statistic.

There was no point in asking her, Camilla wouldn’t answer questions. In fact, she never spoke at all. No one knew whether she couldn’t or just wouldn’t – it was cause for more speculation.

She lived in a squat in one of the abandoned warehouses down by the river. A couple of kids who had nothing better to do than spy on her, said she made a nest with her treasures, like a dragon with its hoard.

She was a familiar enough figure around the neighborhood that it only took a couple of days before people noticed she was missing. Still, it was another couple of days before anyone checked her squat. It was empty – no Camilla, no hoard. She vanished as mysteriously as she’d appeared, as though she’d never been there at all.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Wordage Report

Wandering Wizards – ? words
Oops, I didn’t keep track. Howard’s up to his neck in hot water, and the rest of the gang has just realized he’s missing. It’s moving forward!

Weekly Prompt – 375 words
This story started out well, but as you can see I had a hard time figuring out how to end it. The expanded version will have a much cooler ending.

New Prompt
Use this as your first line:
The cloud was talking, and you know what that means.

Happy Writing!

Going Into Hiding

No, I’m not actually going into hiding, that’s just the title of the flash piece I wrote. But I gotta tell you, it feels like the whole world has gone into hiding. I’m seeing fewer and fewer people outside, even the dog walkers have been greatly reduced in number. And grocery shopping is getting downright creepy – waiting in line (the required 6 feet apart), then going in and getting out as quickly as possible, not even talking to anyone.

Between the grey, dismal weather, and the self-isolation, I’m not feeling very ambitious these days. You’d think being told to stay away from other people and stay home would be the perfect time to get a pile of writing done, but it’s appearing to have the opposite effect with me. I’m having a hard time getting anything done, let alone writing. And I take only a small comfort in the fact that I’m not alone, feeling like this. A lot of other writers I know are struggling.

Several members of my poetry group are challenging themselves to do a poem a day this month (National Poetry Month) and they’ve been sharing these poems with the group via email. I’ve been enjoying the poems, but I have absolutely no desire to write one of my own. Kudos to those that do.

That being said, I actually did make some progress on Wandering Wizards last week. Be still my heart I might get this sucker done yet! And I wrote a very short, very strange little story to last week’s prompt. So two for two – go me!

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

GOING INTO HIDING

I've got my lantern - now I'm going into hiding. You really should too. You don’t want to wait until the last minute like Geoffrey did. Remember him? Remember what happened to him? Yeah, you don’t want to wait too long.

What kind of lantern do I have? It’s really cool. Vintage even. It’s a kerosene lantern, it belonged to my grandpa. I found it when I was cleaning out the basement of my grandma’s house. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff she had down there. She even had kerosene for the lantern.

It’s kind of weird that he even had it, it’s not like he ever needed to go into hiding. He died a long time ago, years before . . . you know. All I really remember about him was that he was a stubborn old coot. I bet he’d have been one of those crazies who refuse to go into hiding. They get what they deserve, don’t you think?

I don’t know why people complain about it so much, I kind of enjoy having to go into hiding a couple of times a year. Breaks up the routine, you know what I mean? Never a dull moment when you gotta pack up and hunker down at a moment’s notice.

I got me a real sweet spot, fixed it up real nice. Not that I make it too obvious – wouldn’t do for anyone to stumble across it. Sure it gets a little cramped sometimes, but it’s only for a week or two, right? A couple of months tops. Gives me a chance to catch up on my reading.

Say, did you hear about Simon? A couple of turns ago he invited his girlfriend to go into hiding with him. I don’t know what he was thinking. It was that long turn, the one that ended up being three months long. I guess they didn’t even make it to one month before he snapped. Beat the girlfriend to death with a shovel, and then had to live with the corpse for two more months.

Oops! There goes the siren. Better hurry, you don’t want to be caught in the pre-hiding sweep. Grab your lantern, and good luck.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Wordage Report

Wandering Wizards – 2,000 words (approximately)
By applying the BICJDI method (butt in chair, just do it) I pushed through to the action again. Whew! The group reached the Sirene Sea, the harpies attacked, and Howard has been kidnapped.

Weekly Prompt – 370 words
It’s a strange little story that doesn’t really seem finished, but it is what it is.

New Prompt
Use this as your first line:
If my life gets any more like the story of Alice in Wonderland I'm going to kill something.

Happy Writing!