Master Class: Into the Woods

Rhys and Jen are back in the next piece of the White Wolves serial.  Rhys is taking Jen to his place in order to keep her safe from a rival pack of werewolves while they continue the hunt for her abducted son.  If you've missed any, please follow the link above to find previous pieces to the story.  Be sure to check out other Master Class assignments via their badge below.

                They drove in silence for the next forty or so miles.  Jeremy slept against the passenger door.  Jen stared out the window alternating between hope and panic.  She didn’t know these two men and here she was, driving down the road to who knows where trusting they weren’t going to harm her.  Maybe her mother was right and her hope, her need, to find Cullen kept her from thinking through decisions well.

                “We’re almost to the last turn off.  Do you need anything before we do?  Once we turn, there’s nothing between the turn and the cabin.”

                “I’m fine, thank you.”

                Rhys nodded.

                Feeling a sudden rush of impulsiveness, Jen broke the silence.

                “The herbs.  Are they hard to find?  I mean, can just anyone find them and lace your food with them?”

                Jeremy answered without opening his eyes, “No.  They’re rare.  And they need to be brewed into a potion before they can affect us.  You thinking about trying to drug us?”

                “No,” Jen’s heart leapt into her throat at Jeremy’s words, “You can keep your precious potion.  I just wanted to understand how someone could gain control of people as powerful as you.”

                Jeremy sat up and opened his eyes, “Power has nothing to do with anything here.  We are no different than you.  We live, we love, we lose, we die.  Just like you.”

                “That’s enough, Jeremy.  She’s still learning about our world and filled with the illusions Hollywood has painted about us.”

                “My apologies, ma’am.  I did not intend to offend.  The messed up stories about us bother me.”

                “May I ask why?”

                Jeremy closed his eyes.  Jen looked to Rhys.

                “Was that not okay to ask?”

                “Jeremy’s had a few run-ins with people who thought they knew about our kind from places like the internet and Hollywood.”

                “Oh.”

                They turned off the highway onto a dirt road that wound through trees Jen estimated to be several hundred years old.  She thought she saw glimpses of fur as the headlights flickered into the forest.  Horror movie scenes started to play through her mind, though she never liked those movies.  Now, however, she seemed to be in one.

                Rhys pulled up to a shed at the end of the dirt road.  Jeremy got out and disappeared without a word.  Jen slid over, but stayed in the truck.

                “Now what?  I don’t believe this shed is our final destination.”

                “It isn’t.  We need to walk the last little ways.  I have your things.  Again, I swear, you will be safe here.  In this place, my word is law.”

                 Still feeling like something ought to be jumping out of the woods to kill and eat her, Jen followed Rhys down a path no bigger than a deer trail.

Master Class: Learning the Truth

I am really getting on the ball tonight.  First Studio 30 Plus and the Weather Riders got posted, now Master Class and the White Wolves get a little more to their story.  Chalk this one up on the calendar as a red letter day.  Be sure to stop by Our Write Side via the Master Class button below to see other answers to the prompt.  For my piece, I chose Rancid Religion.

                Rhys escorted Jen back to his beat up pickup truck.  Jeremy sat with his head back and his eyes closed leaning up against the passenger door.  Rhys gave Jen a hand up into the cab before stowing her bag in the tool box bolted to the bed.

                Once on the road, Jen felt as if she could breathe a little better.  Something seemed to whisper to her that this would not end until Cullen’s arms wrapped around her neck.  She vowed to herself never to let him go again.  Then, either insane recklessness or unabashed bravery kicked in.

                “Rhys.”

                “Yes,” his eyes never left the road.

                “Where did those tattoos come from?”

                “Which?”

                “Well.  I could see several on your shoulder.  Either that or it’s one complex tattoo.  I couldn’t quite tell, but I’m thinking it’s at least two different pieces.”

                “There are actually three.”

                Jen waited.  Just when she thought Rhys was not going to say anything else, he glanced over at her and spoke again.

                “Two are mine by choice.  The third was not.”

                “A drunken frat party type tattoo?”

                “Not exactly.”

                “So?”

                Jen could see her prompt had not missed its mark, but there was something Rhys was holding back.

                “Look.  I haven’t run screaming in panic, tried to douse you in holy water, or stab you with silver.  Whatever it is probably won’t be too huge of a shock anymore.”

                Rhys blew out a long breath, “The third was from a group who practiced a rather rancid religion, not exactly one of the major world religions if you know what I mean.”

                Jen nodded.

                “By the way, none of that stuff you mentioned works to stop us.”

                “What?”

                “The silver, the holy water, et cetera.  None of that actually works.  It’s part of the werewolf lore that sprang up when the Romans wanted to control everything, but could not control our kind.”

                “Okay.  Do the two have anything to do with each other?”

                “What?  The crackpot zealots who forced the tattoo on me and the Romans?”

                “Yeah.”

                “No.  Other than both were attempting to dominate the wolves.”

                “Oh.”

                No one spoke for quite a while.  The radio played in the background, soft enough to be soothing but loud enough to provide a distraction from talking.

                “How did they keep you to tattoo you?  And what does the tattoo mean if you didn’t choose to have it?”

                “There are a few rare herbs that can drug us to sleep.  And the occasional wizard, for lack of a better way of describing them, can conjure a spell strong enough to subdue us.”

                “Which one got you?”

                “The herbs.”

                There was something in the way Rhys gave his answer that told Jen there was more to the story than just that.  It also told her that now was not the right time to be asking about it.

                “The tattoo is a mark of property.  They sought to control me through the herbs.  It didn’t work.”

                Jen snorted, “Clearly.”

Master Class: The Hunt Begins

I took a little break from my normal White Wolves responses for Master Class this week because the prompt furthered a scene in a short story I'm working on so well.  I do have to give a quick warning here.  While the scene is totally PG, there is an oblique reference to child abuse.  Just don't want anyone to get caught off guard.  And, please, let me know if the way it is handled in this piece is problematic.  I am hoping I've addressed it in a respectful and appropriate way, but it is a rough draft and I am certainly not perfect.

Anyways, the one piece of background you need to know for this scene is that "She" is Juno/Demeter/Rhiannon.  In other words, she who is known to be the protector of children.  And my working title for the short story is "Karma Incarnate".  Let me know what you think and be sure to check out other great responses over at Our Write Side via the button below.

                Perfect, she thought.  That was the chance she needed.  Her work could truly begin.  She insinuated herself utterly into his body, her cells paired with his, her heart beat in perfect synchrony with his, her mind enmeshed with his.  His thoughts made her furious and ill.  That part always did.

                In the basement, he sat down and buried his head in his hands.  Thoughts, memories, feeling, and more exploded chaotically.  Regret, fear, satisfaction.  His own childhood memories.  Good and bad.  Pictures.  Films.  They paraded around his mind until he was physically ill.  He sobbed.  He laughed.  He screamed into a pillow.  He punched a hole in the wall without noticing the cuts streaming blood down his arm as a result.

                There was a small part of her that wanted to feel sorry for him.  She saw those memories, too.  There was only one of her and so many more evil-doers that chose to harm children in the world now.  She got there and put a stop to it as quickly as she could.  Just like tonight.  But it didn’t excuse what he did tonight, and the much larger part of her felt no remorse for him.  He had another choice.  He chose wrong.

                All the while she hid in the back of his mind, in the deep recesses of his body, pulling strings and pushing buttons.  Watching while all of his witty untruths crumbled into the blackened detritus they were.

                She backed off and surrendered her influence when she sensed he was at his tipping point.  She didn’t want him to lose it.  That was the easy way out and he didn’t deserve that.  Not even close.  He could have chosen another way.

And you still have a few more days to link up with the Don't Panic Picture Prompt if you haven't yet!  I dare ya to give it a try!

Master Class: Determination

So, by falling asleep with my son last night, I also didn't get my Master Class assignment done.  So I combined last week's assignment with this week's assignment, and managed to work in 3 of the 6 prompts.  I hope that gets me enough extra credit this week to make up for missing last week.  If you've missed any of the previous pieces of the White Wolves story, click here to catch up.  Let me know what you think and be sure to stop by Our Write Side to check out other great assignments via their button below.

            Recognizing the look on Jen’s face, Rhys got up, checked to make sure the door to the bar was locked, and disappeared into a backroom.  Presumably with Jeremy.

            Jen remained at the table, frantically trying to process everything that had happened since she first met Rhys such a short time ago.  Thoughts chased around her head making a bewildering crossing so complex that it rivaled the highway systems she’d seen growing up out in L.A.  Her thoughts kept coming back to two things, though.  Rage at her ex for dragging her and Cullen into this insane world, and a growing sense of panic for Cullen’s safety.

            She jumped when she saw Rhys standing at her table.  He’d seemed to appear out of nowhere for all the sound he had made.

            “Come on.  I’ll take you to your house so you can get some things.  Then I’ll get you somewhere safe.”

            She didn’t say anything.  Just grabbed her small purse and followed him out the door.  She paused when she saw Jeremy waiting in the truck Rhys was standing by.

            “Don’t worry.  Jeremy is one of mine.”

            Jen still hesitated.  It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Jeremy.  Or Rhys.  It was more that there was a sense of finality to this.  That if she went with them, her life would be irrevocably changed.  The question was – would it be for better or for worse?

            She took a deep breath and climbed in the truck.  She needed to feel Cullen’s warm, wriggling little body in her arms.  She’d give anything to hear his squeaky voice shout “Mommy” again.  Part of it was a selfish giving; she felt as if she’d shatter into a million pieces without him.  However, most of it was that Cullen didn’t deserve this.  What two-year-old did?  It wasn’t his fault he’d been born to messed up parents.  Come whatever may, she was not going to quit until Cullen was safe with her once again.

            When they got back to her house, Rhys followed her in while Jeremy waited in the truck.  Rhys passed her to enter the house first once the door was unlocked.  As he slipped past her, Jen noticed the blood and jagged tears in one shoulder.

            “Come on.  You need a new shirt and to clean up your shoulder.”

            “It’s fine,” Rhys continued to search through the house unfazed by her observation.

            Jen made her way through the house gathering up things into a backpack.  She found Rhys waiting in the living room.  She tossed him a shirt.

            “It was one my ex left here.  I used to use it for a work shirt when I didn’t want to get anything of mine dirty.  I think it should fit, though it may be a bit tighter on you than it was my ex.  He wasn’t in as good of shape.”

            Rhys caught the shirt, “Where may I change?”

            “There’s a bathroom right around the corner there.”

            Rhys was back in less than a minute.  The blood was cleaned up and the torn shirt was balled up in one hand.  Jen was right.  The shirt was much closer fitting on Rhys.  It also revealed the edges of a couple tattered tattoos on that shoulder.  Scars and scabs marred some of the intricate beauty.

            “You ready?”

            Jen took a deep breath, “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Master Class: Fighting For a Prize

I know!  I'm late.  I don't have much of an excuse.  But I did manage to get two of the three Master Class prompts worked into this piece.  Here's the latest in the White Wolves series.  Also be sure to check out other excellent responses via the Master Class button below.

            “Waylon,” the leader of the three started, “You flea-bitten, mangy, pathetic excuse of an omega.”

            In the pause Rhys jumped in, “That’s quite the set of flowered insults there, Jennings.”

            Jennings made for Rhys, but the other two stopped him.  They both spoke softly to Jennings for several seconds.  Finally, Jennings quit baring his teeth and growling.

            “Mr. Harris wants to see you,” Jennings said, a tinge of a gravelly rumble still coloring his voice.

            “I don’t care.  Harris has no territory here,” Rhys moved to the center of the small bar, blocking Jen from the men.

            Jen scooted back further into the corner.  She’d hung around her ex and his loser friends long enough to recognize when a fight was brewing.  She watched as the men squared off.  Jennings was in front of Rhys.  The other two shifted to encircle him.

            The bartender stepped to Rhys’s back.  No words were spoken.  Even as the first punches were thrown, Jen didn’t know who struck first, Jen found it to be an eerily silent disturbance.  All five men moved with supernatural sleek.  Punches and kicks were doled out in a blur.  Blood seemed to spring into existence from nowhere on all five men.  It was the only sign Jen saw that any of the punches or kicks landed.  None of the strikes seemed to phase the men.

            Then, just as quickly as it started, the brawl was over.  And in the same deafening stillness.  Jennings and his two boys had been pushed back to the door.  Rhys and the bartender were rather battered, but clearly were the victors.  The only trouble was that Jen wasn’t certain what they’d won.

            Rhys growled, a low rumbling reminiscent of the wolf she’d seen him become just a little while ago.  The two men with Jennings ducked their heads and backed out of the bar.  Jennings stood his ground.

            “Tell Harris he has no business here.  This territory, and everything in it, belongs to me.  If he wants it, tell him he’ll need to come get it himself.”

            Jen blinked several times and studied Rhys again.  The danger laced into those words was impressive for a man who’d been nothing but polite and respectful to her.  She felt the panic rising in her.  What had she gotten herself into?  Taking several deep breaths, Jen reminded herself it was all for Cullen.  There was nothing she would not do for her son.

            Jen had missed the last exchange of words.  She watched as Jennings slunk out of bar, not quite turning his back on Rhys.  Once the door was closed, the bar tender locked it while Rhys collapsed into a chair near Jen.

            “Are you going to be okay?  I mean do I need to take either of you to the hospital or something?”

            “No.  Jerry’ll get the first aid kit.  Then we’ll both be just fine.”

            “What did they want?  For this Mr. Harris?”

             Rhys shot her a steady, level look, “They wanted you.”

Master Class: Beginning to Understand

The wonderful folks over at Our Write Side gave us a great choice of prompts this week for our Master Class assignment.  I chose supreme dishonor to continue my White Wolves serial.  If you've missed previous pieces of the story, click here.  Also, be sure to check out the wonderful stories others have written for Master Class this week via their button below.

                Rhys stared down at the table, tracing designs in the drops of condensation that had run down the side of his glass of beer.  He could feel her watching him, sense the desperation and pain at the absence of her son, and all but taste the need for a distraction from that abject misery. 

However, he also knew he couldn’t answer her question.  At least not as truthfully as she wanted, and he wasn’t prepared to lie to her.  Something about her was different from most of the people the White Wolves worked with.  Something that kept pushing past his defenses, making the case more personal than he cared to allow it to be.  And Rhys knew she wasn’t ready to be that fully indoctrinated into his world.  It would come.  Of that there was no doubt.  Jen had taken that chance, and there was no way out of it.  Dumping a whole new world, literally, on her in one night was too much, though.  For anyone.

Jen cleared her throat.

“Let’s just leave it at there’s quite a bit more to my world than what you currently know.  Trust me when I say it is better to learn about it in small doses.”

Jen sat in the ensuing silence, slowly stirring her drink.

“I know how difficult this is for you, but we must remain focused on your son and your ex.”

“What does he have to do with any of this other than dragging me into some fairy tale world?”

Rhys arched an eyebrow at the venom in her voice, “We have reason to believe he and his pack may have instigated the abduction of your son.”

“Why?”

“I am still checking in to some things, so I’m not certain I have the full answer to that.  If you were part of our world, it would be the most supreme dishonor imaginable among the packs.”

“What do you mean?”

Rhys noticed her ability to compartmentalize the subject so she could keep her emotions locked away.  Admirable and valuable considering the circumstances, but he knew from experience that it could only last so long before everything fell apart.

“To take a child, a pup, from its mother is effectively saying the mother is incompetent of raising her own young.  The primary purpose of a mother in the packs.”

“In other words, she’s considered useless.”

Rhys nodded, “I’m sure that has a little to do with it, but it’s not enough to explain the risk as you knew nothing about this world until tonight.”

“So now what?”

Their conversation was interrupted by the door to the run down bar opening.  Three lean, middle aged men in torn jeans and biker jackets sauntered in.

“Waylon.  We’ve been looking for you.”

Master Class: Truths and Questions

Among the prompts Master Class offered us this week was "melancholy occasions".  After a bit of thought, this took me back to my White Wolves serial.  Here is a link to the first parts of the story.  As always, let me know what you think and be sure to check out other Master Class assignments through the button below.

                In moments, but felt like a funeral march of eons, Rhys was back.  There was no sign of the wolf.  Seeing the utter shock on Jen’s face, Rhys took her by the elbow and gently led her back to the bar.  He settled her in a seat and signaled the bartender, who set a Hurricane in front of her.

                Rhys hated these moments, when someone learned about his world.  They almost always turned into such melancholy occasions as he was berated, cursed, or even called a charlatan by the very people who had sought his help.  Rhys braced himself for her disdain as he saw the Hurricane working its magic on her.

                “How is this possible?”

                “What do you mean?” Rhys blinked several times.

                “Werewolves.  How is it they – you – are real?  And the world not know?”

                “That is a long story.”

                “All right, then.  That’ll wait for later.  What part does my ex play in all of this?”

                Rhys hesitated.  He’d told her earlier, but it must not have registered with her.

                “He really is a werewolf, too, isn’t he?”

                Rhys nodded.  Jen was throwing him off.  She wasn’t reacting how he’d thought she would.  Which was also unusual in his experience.  Both because people didn’t usually accept the truth about werewolves as easily as she seemed to be doing, and because he was rarely wrong about people.

                “So what does that mean for my son?”

                “I’m not certain, to be honest.”

                “Why?”

                Rhys took note of the dangerous glint in her eye, “A child from a union such as yours is incredibly rare in our world.  Most unions like yours bear no children.”

                “Are there other children like my son?”

                “I know of none,” Rhys continued before the storm he saw in her eyes could break, “I do know such children have existed before, but none others who now exist.  I have people researching this because I think it may have something to do with why your son was taken.”

                Jen broke down, “So it’s my fault that I got pregnant by my loser of an ex.”

                “No,” Jen’s head snapped up at the heat in his voice, “This is not your fault.  You have done everything you can to care for Cullen and have never given up your belief that he is alive.  A belief that has proven true.”

                Another thought occurred to Jen that shifted the subject away from the raw agony of the current one, “If werewolves are real, what other fairy tales are real?”

Don't forget - the Don't Panic Picture Prompt is up!  You have until Sunday March 6th.

Master Class: The Prank

I couldn't resist the "Deep Space Mutterings" prompt from Master Class this week.  Took me a while to come up with something as I didn't want to be to cliche or tropish with it.  I hope I accomplished this.  Let me know what you think and be sure to stop by the class to read other assignments.  Just click on the button below.

                She giggled.

                “What’s so funny?”

                “I pranked them people.”

                “Which people?” concern evident in his voice.

                “Them people who are always watching space.”

                “’Fina, what did you do?”

                “Oh relax.  I just pranked them.”

                “How?”

                “Adin.  You no fun!”

                “I’ll be even less fun if you don’t tell me what you did right now, Seraphina.”

                “I just made them people think stuff was coming from space.”

                “Like what?” Adin held his breath, praying for a miracle.

                “Just noises.  Mutterings.”

                “Deep space mutterings?”

                Seraphina grinned and nodded her head like a small child, her excitement turning her whole body into a bouncing ball of energy, almost literally.

                “Don’t you go non-comporeal on me.  Why did you do that?” inside Adin was glad it was as simple as this.  Seraphina’s pranks weren’t always this benign.

                Her shape solidified, “Because.  Them peoples is always looking out there.  Them never look here.”

                “But that’s the way we want it.  We don’t want them to know we exist.  Remember last time they found out?”

                Some of the light went out of Seraphina, “Yeah.  But I said I is sorry for that.”

                “It wasn’t your fault.  You didn’t know what would happen.”

                Adin pulled Seraphina to him in a tight embrace.  He knew, despite the fact she’d been alive for centuries according to Earth’s revolutions around Sol, that Seraphina was still a child.  It would be like holding a human toddler responsible for his actions.  And, she was his.  Not as in he owned her.  As in she was his charge.  His foster daughter.  Albeit, one who will someday grow into immense power.

                Seraphina squirmed.  Adin let her go.

                “Is I in trouble?”

                “No ‘Fina.  You’re not.  I checked on the people at the observatory.  They’re pretty excited thinking your prank is something real, but there’s no harm done.”

                “Oh good.  Now me is hungry.”

                 Adin groaned.  Seraphina hungry was a frightening sight, even for him.

The Registry

I know my assignment for Master Class is a little late this week.  I had it written in a journal, but then between a cranky 3 year old and a house that looks like a bomb went off in it, I didn't get a chance to get it posted on time.  Anyways, here's my take on the "Chartered Legacy" prompt.  Be sure to check out other great responses through the button below.

                “Chartered legacy?  Contracted birthright?  Bonded endowment?  What is this world coming to?”

                “Don’t worry about it, Henry.  We don’t need to worry about things like that for the baby.  He will inherit the old way, with no threat to his birthright.”

                “That’s not the point, Gina.  Why should anyone have to spend thousands to make sure their children will be cared for?  Just because we are a part of the Genetic Registry shouldn’t mean we get that protection.  We’ve simply gotten lucky.”

                “Lucky?  Henry!  We paid our dues as did our parents and grandparents.  That we received the protection afforded by the Genetic Registry is our right for our service.”

                “And how many never got the chance to serve, thus earning that privilege?”

                Gina didn’t answer.

                “That’s my point.  We got lucky because of our parents and grandparents.  We are not really that different than the masses out beyond the border.”

                “We’re genetically pure.”

                “Pure what?  There hasn’t been a truly pure human in over two hundred years.”

                “Pure by The Trust’s standards”

                “Gina.  They’ve changed that bar at least three times in the relatively short history of The Trust.”

                “What?  What do you mean?”

                “The Trust has changed what it means to be genetically pure at least three times that I know of since it was founded one hundred years ago, when the last true human died.”

                “Why would they do that?”

                “Because by the original standard, no one alive today would qualify as genetically pure.”

                “But, I thought the Genetic Registry was supposed to be protecting that.  That’s what it says right on the paperwork you sign when you’re accepted in to the Registry.”

                “I know.  And I’m starting to believe the Registry is for another purpose entirely.”

                “Like what?  The Trust will jail you for talking like this.”

                “For the sake of our son, I have to, Gina.  We need to know the reason for the Registry.  The real one.”

Damn the Fates

Here's a quick piece in response to the "lopsided inspirations" prompt from Master Class this week.  Let me know what you think and be sure to check out other responses through the button below as well!

                “Damn the Fates,” he muttered as he labored up the hill, “So many good ideas and no ability to write them down.”

                “Aleron!  Stop your dawdling.  I do not want to be late.”

                “Yes, my lady,” teeth gritted he tried to speed his pace.  It wasn’t much, but Lady Torellani seemed satisfied.

                Arriving at the ancient mansion, he dropped the poles of the rickshaw and hurried to lower the step for Lady Torellani.  It didn’t matter how fast he was; she still gave him that icy glare as if she’d been waiting an eternity for him.  He held his hand out to assist her, but she swept past him.  Even the rustle of the copious layers of silk in her dress seemed to whisper condemnations.

                As Aleron watched Lady Torellani enter the mansion, he moved back the front of the rickshaw to pull it off the street.  Maybe he’d finally have a chance to write about the ideas in his head.  Inventions.  Poetry.  Epics.  Art.  So much inspiration.  It was all there roiling in his mind until he felt he may go mad from the turmoil.

                Reaching the stable, Aleron set the rickshaw down.  He dug in his pockets for the scraps of paper and pencil he kept there in the vain hope he’d have a chance to use them.

                “Aleron?”

                Sighing, Aleron looked up, “Yes?”

                “Lady Torellani wished you to address several tasks while you wait.  Here is the list.”

                He took the list from the serving man and almost choked.  The duties she assigned would surely take him all day.  Even then, he felt uncertain about accomplishing them all before she would want to return home.  Feeling tears welling, he left the courtyard.  It wouldn’t do to have the servants of the house see his weakness.  It would get back to Lady Torellani and that would be dangerous.

The Ossuary

This week I combined the prompt from Master Class and Studio 30 Plus.  I've been listening to The Glass of Time by Michael Cox lately and the two prompts came together in such a perfect way in my head.  Let me know what you think and be sure to check out other great prompt responses via the respective buttons below!

Oh, what a vain, wretched hopes I had standing in that cold ossuary.  What delusion had led me to believe my mistress still drew breath.  I’d seen the cold, pallor of her face.  The sightless gaze of her flat, unmoving eyes.  She had gone into that place all souls fled when the mortal coil was shed.

Yet, here I was.  Standing at her vault in the dead of night, believing with all my pathetic soul that she had not really fled this world.  Stranger yet, I could not say why I thought she still lived.  Not with any clarity or understanding that would yield any meaning should anyone inquire.

Such a folly it had been, becoming so intimately acquainted with my mistress.  Her siren’s allure drew me as surely as Odysseus, only I had no sailors to restrain me from answering that tantalizing call.  Surely, I have met a doom worthy of Homer’s epic at the hands of my mistress.  And, still, I stand at this mausoleum, this sanctuary of death, and hope for a life that has utterly destroyed mine.

Oh, what wretched hopes.

             

Not a Normal Dinner Conversation, Part 2

Master Class this week gave hostile intentions as one of the prompt phrases.  It seemed to fit well with getting One Night in Dusseldorf going again.  Here's a quick synopsis of the story so far, with links to the previous posts above.  Emma is looking for her sister's killer.  Her search took her to Dusseldorf where she fell in with a pack of werewolves, only she didn't know it at the time.  Now she's discovered they're werewolves and they think she's the key to keeping the pack healthy.  James, the second in command to Kris, the leader of the werewolf pack, has just explained that part to Emma.  Now she wants to know about her sister supposedly still being alive.

            James looked down at his half eaten dinner.  I was determined to wait him out.  Dropping a bomb on me like he did claiming my sister is still alive and that they’d been playing games with me all along had me feeling rather angry.  I’m not sure if James could feel me glaring at him, if he finally gave in to the silence, or he decided his dinner wasn’t that interesting to stare at, but he finally glanced back up at me.

            “There is a war of sorts going on.  One humans know nothing about.  Lauren got caught up in it.”

            “And?”

            “She was wanted for the same reason we needed you here.  You are both strong druids, coming from an unbroken line of druids stemming back at least ten centuries.  Maybe even longer.”

            “So why did I see the police reports?  The pictures?”

            “They were the result of what could be considered some hostile interventions.”

            I snorted, “That’s one way to put it.  The body was identified by DNA.  There wasn’t even enough left for dental records.”

            “That was done intentionally so no one would catch on that the body was not Lauren’s.”

            “Were you and Kris involved?”

            James jerked back as if I’d slapped him, “Gods no!  Kris would have killed anyone involved in something like that.  Our pack is fighting to reestablish the natural balance in the supernatural world.”

            “I take it not everyone is?”

            “No.  There are some packs that are quite power hungry.  When many of the druids disappeared, some packs fared worse than others.  Those packs have completely lost the balance.  Kris hopes to find enough druids who are strong enough to reign in those packs, to save them from this madness.”

            “And that’s where Lauren and I come in.”

            “Exactly.”

            “Where is Lauren now, then?”

            “That is a more difficult question to answer.”

Be sure to stop by Master Class to read other great responses, too!

Shattered Precipice Part 2

Here's the second half of Shattered Precipice.  Here's a link to the first half, including a trigger warning.

Cheyenne settled in the other recliner.  She put in a small pair of earbuds and started a playlist as Michael placed similar electrodes around her head.  When she nodded at him, Michael activated the computer program and left the room.

Within moments Cheyenne felt herself being tugged out of her body.  The chaotic intensity of what she entered hit her like a stun grenade.  Slightly panicked, she focused on finding the beat from the music she knew was in her mind alone.  It took longer than she cared to admit, but she found it.  Cheyenne breathed until her heart rate matched the rhythm of the music.  Then she opened her eyes.

It took several agonizing minutes to discern what she was seeing.  Fragments of events from the Middle East blended with voices she presumed were from some point in Lucas’s military training.  Under all of it she could smell cologne.  Each time she tried to focus on one sensory memory, it shifted.

Cheyenne shook her head.  This was not good.  Praying Michael was wrong, she moved deeper into the vortex of disintegrated memories.  Somewhere was the core of Lucas’s psyche, the heart of who Lucas was.  Without that, nothing would weave his psyche back together.

Each layer further into Lucas’s mind assaulted Cheyenne with broken bits of Lucas’s past.  Every time she managed to get to that next metaphysical level, those slivers were a bit more vivid.  Bit just a little deeper.

Cheyenne lost track of time.  Space.  Everything but finding the essence that was Lucas.  Thick, warm, metallic tastes randomly filled her mouth and nose to where she gagged and were just as quick to disappear.  Pain had long since set every last nerve singing to where it was all she could do to keep it tuned to the music that anchored her being.  Tortures were wreaked upon her metaphysical body.

One thought began to filter through all the sensory chaos flooding Cheyenne’s mind.  She was dangerously near the shattered precipice.  The merge was so complete, though, that she struggled to discern if it was Lucas’s or her own.

“Stop.”

The clear, strong voice sounded so alien to Cheyenne it took her a moment to even compute what was said.

“Who are you?”

“Cheyenne.  I’m here to help.”

“Who sent you?”

“Your father.  He brought you to me.  He wants you back.”

“He’s dead.  Who sent you?!”

“Lucas.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your father sent me.  He told me your name.  He told me something happened to you.  He didn’t know what.  That doesn’t matter to him.  He wants you back.”

“I saw him die.”

“No, Lucas.  He’s alive.  In my office right now.”

Lucas laughed, “Don’t know if you’ve missed it, but we’re not in an office.  Now.  Who the hell are you?”

“I told you.  My name is Cheyenne.  I’m a special type of therapist.  I help people.  I want to help you.”

“Help me what?  I don’t need any help.”

“Lucas.  You’re not in the Middle East anymore.  You’re home.”

“Home?”

Cheyenne caught a glimpse of a memory whirling near her.  She reached out as if to grab it.  Lucas’s attention shifted.  The memory flew past her to collide with Lucas.  The haze weaving through him lightened a little.

“The plane ride.  Remember?  There were the banners and balloons.  Your parents were so over the top you were embarrassed, but you loved that they were so excited to see you.”

“Jamie and little Tommy were there.  He tried to chew on my uniform.”

Even though his words were slow and hesitant, Cheyenne wanted to jump up and down, “Yes!”

Lucas scrubbed at his face.  Several more memories wrapped themselves around Lucas.  Cheyenne could only see glimpses, but that was enough.  Lucas tensed.  His face went blank.  An invisible band wrapped itself around Cheyenne.  The pressure was almost unbearable.

“Lucas!  Please!  You’re safe.  You got home.  You’re living with your parents.”

“They tried to poison me.”

“They love you!”

“Then where are they?”

“This is your mind.  They couldn’t follow me here.  Come with me and I can bring you to your father.  He’s in my office.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Look at me.  You can see my thoughts.  You know the truth.”

The hurricane slackened enough for Cheyenne to see Lucas’s mindscape around her.  Then wished she hadn’t.  They were on the shattered precipice.  Any mistake, any misstep and the ground beneath them both would crumble away.  She’d never been here before.  Close, but not actually here.  The supernatural wind picked up again, this time driving her toward the edge.

“Lucas!  Look around you!”

“We’re in the Hindu Kush.”

“Why would I be here then?  Why would I know what I do about you?  Your father’s here.  In my office.  Come with me and I can show you.”

“Know what about me?”

“You enlisted in the Marine Corps two months before you turned eighteen.  It was all you ever wanted to do.  Your mother cried the day you left for Boot Camp.  It was the first time you ever saw her cry.  The second was when you were sent to the middle east for the first time.”

“I had to go.”

“She knew that.  And she was proud of you, even as she hated that you were leaving.”

“I promised her I’d come home.”

“And you did.  Lucas, you’ve served your time in Hell.  Let me help you home.  I will help you fix the rest.”

Whatever was holding her disappeared.  Cheyenne collapsed even as the ground around her crumbled further.

“How do you fix this?”

The venom in his words were arrows that literally pinned her to the unstable ground.  A black miasmic bubble spun out of the maelstrom around them and slammed into her.  Viscous emotions writhed into her body, melting their way through every pore.

Cheyenne opened her eyes.  Mountains surrounded her and a language she didn’t recognize echoed in her mind, yet she knew what was being said.  It was a deal being made.  Weapons.  Intelligence.  Military positions.  Part of her had no real idea what all of it meant while another could picture every last detail being described.

Then the talk shifted to drugs.  Heroin.  That Cheyenne knew quite a bit about.  Over the years she’d had several clients die from heroin overdoses.  They were all trauma survivors that hadn’t really survived.  Here, the amount of heroin being discussed was staggering.  Millions of dollars.

When she saw the speakers it felt as if a knife had been shoved through her guts.  The Afghan man didn’t spark any recognition, but the man in the American military uniform certainly did.  He was the CO of the nearby US forward operating base.  And he’d just sold out not only that base, but two others as well.

A storm of emotion and memory whirled around her.  Then, the CO was in front of her, a pistol aimed at her chest.

“Why did you have to follow me?  Nothing was going to happen until you were gone.”

“Why the hell did you do it?  Heroin?  You were always so against drugs.  And to sell out your fellow Marines?”

“It wasn’t for drugs.  The heroin was simply a means to an end.”

“Money.”

The CO smiled as he pulled the trigger.  Cheyenne felt the bulled tear through his upper shoulder and chest.

The pain ejected her from the memory to a spot on the decaying precipice just a few feet away from Lucas.  One arm dangled over the edge.  In theory, even if she fell, she wouldn’t go mad.  However, finding her way out of Lucas’s insanity would be a feat of mythical proportions.

She ventured a glance up into Lucas’s face.  Fear, loathing, guilt, hurt, sadness, and anger vacillated there.

Cheyenne tried to get up, but couldn’t, “Lucas.  I get it.  He destroyed everything that meant anything to you.  He’s destroying you, too, with this.  Please.  Let me help you.”

Whatever was holding her began inching her toward the abyss.  Cheyenne could see the psychosis creeping around the edges of his eyes.  She was losing him, and probably herself as well.

With almost half of her body hanging over the chasm, Cheyenne took an approach that, had any of her professors or mentors saw they’d probably help shove her over.

“Lucas!  You will stop this instantly!  Stand your post and let me go!”

Something got through because her slow slide toward insanity stopped.  Maybe she had an opening.

“You are not a murderer and I am not your enemy.  Look at me.”

His eyes attempted to focus on her.  For a moment, maybe they did.  Then they slid away again.  Unfocused.  Back into the cruel memory.

“Look.  At.  Me.  We are not in Afghanistan.  I am a civilian.  Where is the honor in harming me?  It took so much courage to do what you did in Afghanistan.  Where is that courage now?  Come with me.  You’ve been loyal to all the Marine Corps stands for despite everything.  Don’t give that up now.”

The feelers of psychosis faded from Lucas’s face.

“Ma’am?  What are you doing here?  It’s dangerous here.”

Cheyenne blinked, “I’m here to help you, Marine.  I can show you the way out.”

Lucas pulled her back from the precipice, “Please, ma’am.  I’m not sure where I am.  Every time I try to leave I end up back here.

“Take my hands and listen.  Peel back each layer of sound until you hear music.  Feel the tempo match your heart.  The cadence calling you.  Follow it.”

Cheyenne chose to wait for a moment before leaving Lucas’s mind.  The shattered precipice looked a little stronger already.  The maelstrom was dying down.  It was more like a vicious prairie storm now.  She closed her eyes and let a few tears fall.  It had been close.  Too close.  Michael would be furious.  Would probably demand her retirement from active PRT.

“Maybe he’s right.  But, how can I leave men like Lucas hurting when I can start to fix it?”

Cheyenne followed Lucas back to the conscious world.

Shattered Precipice Part 1

Master Class this week gave us three choices.  Shattered precipice, rugged resolutions, and Auld Lang Syne.  Shattered precipice spoke to me this time.  While the short story is ending up too long to post all at once, here's the first part.  Any feedback is welcome, particularly about whether or not there's too much explanation at the start.  And, this story does touch on PTSD, the military, and the conflict in the Middle East.  It is still PG-13 and under, but I don't want anyone to be caught off guard by the implied trauma issues in the story.  Thanks for stopping by!

            “Welcome.  I presume Mr. Andreson is waiting elsewhere?”

            “Yes.  Why do you presume that?” the man scrubbed his buzzed silver hair.

            “I intend no offense, but you did not strike me as a troubled man who just returned from a second tour in the Middle East.  Also, your voice sounds familiar to me.  Since I have never spoken to Mr. Andreson, you are likely not him.  Therefore, I believe you to be Mr. Andreson’s father.  I am Ms. Harper’s assistant, Michael.”

            “Ah.  Yes.  John Andreson,” he thrust out his hand as he cleared his throat, “My son is waiting outside.”

            Michael shook the proffered hand, “Please, Mr. Andreson.”

            “John.”

            “John, then.  Please, relax.  Ms. Harper will be with us shortly.  There is nothing to fear here.  She has already agreed to assist your son.”

            “If you can even get him in the building.”

            Michael showed Mr. Andreson to a small, cozy waiting area surrounded by picture windows that offered a magnificent view of the city, “May I get you something to drink?”

            “No.  Is Ms. Harper as good as the price tag she puts on this suggests?”

            “How did you learn of Ms. Harper?”

            “What does that matter?”

            “Please.  Indulge me and I will make it clear.”

            “The last therapist we took Lucas to suggested her when he couldn’t get Lucas to even set foot in his office.  Said something about Ms. Harper doing some research into this new kind of therapy that has done a lot for other veterans with PTSD.”

Genesis of the End

Master Class had a great prompt.  I am not going to put it here because it is a long line from the book The Big Rock Candy Mountain by Wallace Stegner.  To be more precise, it is the last line of the book.  The scene that came to mind is in the same "story" as a 108 word piece I just wrote for Studio 30+ and Write On Edge.  Since it is so short, here is that piece in case you missed it:

“The bells of St. Brigit’s are calling tonight.”

“They must have gotten yesterday’s report.”

They both stood there listening to the sonorous tolling of the bells.  One unending string of beats, each beat a life that was lost.  He went inside to finish packing.  She paused on the balcony.  The clouds hung in tatters above her like the rotted remnants of shrouds hiding nothing but brittle bones of long dead souls.

She shook her head.  The daily ritual of ringing the bells for each Great Plague death was bringing her down.  She pondered how much longer the ringers would be there to ring.

And here is my take on the Master Class prompt.  This is another scene that came to mind based on the world suggested above, but does not necessarily integrate seamlessly with the piece above, if that makes sense.  Concrit is always welcome!  Please enjoy.

He was the only one left to fulfill that contract and try to justify the labor and the harshness and the mistakes of his parents’ lives, and that responsibility was so clearly his, was so great an obligation, that it made unimportant and unreal the sight of the motley collection of pall-bearers staggering under the weight of his father’s body, and the back door of the hearse closing quietly upon the casket and the flowers.

Their work had been brilliant, was supposed to have changed lives.  It certainly did that, just not in the way they thought.  His parents’ detractors insisted they were tampering with the natural course of things.  The supports cheered his parents on.  Either way, it spurred his parents to work harder with their viral DNA manipulations.  They were so convinced they could create the perfect virus.  It would attack just the harmful cells, consuming them, stopping the cancer from growing.

But it did more than that.  It consumed everything.  It was a plague, just like the ones from the history books.  His mother was the first victim.  His father lingered a few days longer.  He thought his mother had the better end of the deal.

While they may have been the first to succumb to the virus, they weren't the last.  And now it was up to him.  Up to him to make it right.  Up to him to stop the spread of the virus.

And be sure to read other great responses with the line I used as the opening sentence here by clicking on the badge below.

Inferno

Master Class is back!!  I actually missed the first one.  I'll admit that.  But I had enough time to squeak in a response this week.  We were given "Never name the well from which you will not drink." from Marion Zimmer Bradley's The Mists of Avalon.  We had to use it as the first or last line.  I chose to use the line to start off the next piece of a short story that was actually started from a Master Class prompt last fall.  Hopefully I can get it finished sometime soon so I can aim to get it published somewhere.  As always, concrit is most welcome.  Here it is:

Never name the well from which you will not drink, he thought to himself as he came to.  The last thing he remembered was breaking through the hole to see what was beyond the cracks.  All he got was a glimpse of flame and hands.  He hated flames.  Too many of the scars he had were from flames.

Now he had a real dilemma.  They wanted him to give the spirit up.  Give it to them.  He’d told himself he’d never betray his word again.  He’d done that too many times.  He couldn’t do it again.

But, if he didn’t give up the spirit, they would keep him.  Forever.

His one chance at having his life back was slipping away.  He finally understood what the priestess meant.  Did the others give up the spirits they carried or did they refuse and were stuck somewhere in this hell?

The only upside to the situation was that he got away from the desert emptiness.  Not that this was much better.  At least it was different, though.

Focus! he snapped at himself.  He needed to figure out how to get out of this.  There had to be another way out.  He just needed to figure out what it was.  He strained at the chains around his arms and legs again.  They tightened again.  It was almost to the point he was losing circulation.

He slumped, dangling like a broken puppet in a demented version of Dante’s Inferno.  It was futile.  The chains wouldn’t give.  The ideas were gone.  He was no different than the others.  He’d be stuck here just like the others.

“Hey,” a soft whisper came from the flickering shadows.



I forgot!  Make sure you head over and check out other takes on this prompt!  Just click on the icon below.

A Prophecy Fulfilled

I swear.  I'm not trying to be teacher's pet getting my assignment in early and all.  But, this prompt worked well to wrap up a short story I'm working on for NaNo.  Yeah.  I'm nuts for even attempting NaNo this year.  But I figured it'd serve as a reminder to keep working on my writing amidst everything else.  

So - here's the new Master Class assignment.  We were given the 10th line on page 100 of Anne McCaffery's Dragonflight.  We had to either begin or end the story with this line "She rubbed her palms against her thighs in anticipation of the challenge."

As I said, my response is the end of the story.  The beginning can be found here.  The part in the middle.  Well, that you'll have to wait for my short story collection to get.  Here's the ending:

She rubbed her palms against her thighs in anticipation of the challenge.  So much had happened to lead her to this point.  She knew, beyond any inkling of a doubt, that this moment would define the rest of her life.  The rest of her rule.

“Highness, you’ll wrinkle your dress if you keep doing that,” Jaylen’s maid nodded to where Jaylen’s hands were wrapped into fists in the delicate silk fabric.

“You’re right, Noella.”

Noella reached down to smooth the silk.  When she brushed against Jaylen’s hands she jerked back.  Small red marks appeared on Noella’s fingertips.

“Oh!  Noella, are you alright?”

“I was burned.  How?”

“I was fixing my dress.”

The blank look on Noella’s face screamed incomprehension.

“I manipulate fire now, remember?  I was warming my hands enough to smooth out any wrinkles.”

“I guess you’ll have no need of me ironing any of your clothes again, will you?”

“Don’t be silly, Noella.  You’ve cared for me right from the start.  I will always need you.  Irons and all.  Besides, I think the court will keep me plenty busy to worry much about ironing my own clothes.”

“Aye.  They will at that.  Is Lord Maroshek going to be here today?”

Jaylen’s face pinked a little at the mention of his name, “He is.  He refused my request to stand with me.”

“He’s a smart man.”

“I know.  I just feel better when he’s there.”

“Lord Maroshek has been your protector since shortly after your birth.  If you didn’t feel better I’d be worried.”

“I hate the political necessity of having to distance myself from him right now.”

“Is it just his protection you miss, or is there something more?”

Jaylen’s face reddened even more.  She turned away from her maid to stare out the window.  Parts of the city still burned.  Ash blew on the wind like snowflakes.  Most of the prophecy had come true.  Now it was up to her to rule.  She felt like the hard part had just begun.

“I don’t know, Noella.  The House of the Lion has always served and protected the House of the Phoenix.  Never anything more.  Yet, there is a part of me that wants more from Maroshek.”

“Never?  That’s a strong word.”

Jaylen whipped around.  Her mouth hung open, “What do you mean?”

“Come, child.  You know that the official histories are only that which was chosen to be preserved.  There is always more to the story than the official histories.”

“Then there have been times the Lion House was more than protectors to the Phoenix House.”

Noella’s lack of reply told Jaylen all she needed to know.  Her task to rule suddenly didn’t seem so heavy.  The trumpets sounded outside interrupting the conversation.  Noella placed the crown on Jaylen’s head and adjusted her auburn curls.

Jaylen drew herself up, assumed the long familiar regal bearing expected and nodded at the guards.  They threw open the heavy oak doors still singed around the edges.  Walking through, Jaylen made a note to herself to have someone fix them.  As she stepped into the throne room, she changed her mind.  The blackened marks throughout the palace would serve as a good reminder for the ruling Houses that she, Jaylen Amayana, was the rightful Empress.  And that anyone who wanted to challenge her would have to deal with a Phoenix Reborn.

Please be sure to click on the Master Class badge above to check out other great authors' responses to the prompt as well.

The Diary

I combined two prompts for this post.  Unfortunately I missed the deadline for Master Class - which gave us the opening line from Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice.  I did catch Trifecta's prompt - phantom.  As usual, any concrit is very welcome and appreciated.  Enjoy!

***I just found out I didn't miss Master Class after all.  The deadline got extended.  Be sure to pop over and check out the other responses over there.

“’It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a good wife’.  That’s what that hag told me today!  I couldn't believe she thought I should be satisfied being some flower hanging off the arm of some dandy.  But, then my dear diary, the most exciting thing happened.  Mr. Martin stopped to speak with me.  He said he had an offer to make me and I should meet him at the market square.  I trailed behind him to the far corner where the animals are sold.

“I must confess - a phantom of nervousness passed through me at that point.  He whispered to me that he had an alternative to marriage.  At first I thought he might have something rather dishonorable in mind.  But he assured me he didn't.  Then he told me it was an adventure!  Mr. Martin wanted me to go on an actual adventure!

“I thought it a bit odd when he said I wasn't to tell anyone and not to worry about bringing anything.  He reassured me that all would be arranged for me.  Then he reminded me, the only other alternative I have right now is to find myself stuck in a dull marriage just like every other girl my age around here.

“I just have to go!  Maybe I can post a letter to Mother after we depart explaining things to her.  I just hope she understands.”

“There’s nothing else in that diary?”

“No, sir.”

“Not very helpful in locating the girl. Or this Mr. Martin fellow.”

“Unfortunately not, sir.  But at least we do know something foul happened.”