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: 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.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Here's a bonus post tonight!  I began a series, based on some writing prompts, called The White Wolves.  Links to the rest of the story are up on top.  Here's the next piece in Jen's efforts to find her missing son.

                Jen froze.  Rhys studied the damp, quiet night, waiting for her to digest what he’d just said.

                “My son’s alive.”

                “Yes.”

                “You know that for certain?”

                “Short of me personally seeing it with my own eyes, yes.  The intel I have is that he is alive.”

                “And that’s from a reliable source?”

                “As reliable as they come.  I’ve never gotten bad information from this source yet.”

                Silent tears crept down her face to mingle on the pavement with the droplets from the trees.  Then she took a deep breath and shook her head a little.

                “Now.  What do you mean about his father?”

                Rhys rubbed his chin and glanced around again.

                “Spill it.  You’re stalling.”

                “You’re right.  I’m stalling.  But not for why you think,” he caught her gaze and held it with an intensity Jen had never experienced before, “If I explain what I meant by that, there’s no going back.  You cannot unlearn what you will learn if you get that explanation.”

                “Why the warning?  What is so bad about my ex that it deserves this?”

                “Not bad.  Just not something that is easily understood.  And, like drugs, once you find out there’s no way to not know anymore.  The knowledge will be there in everything you think and do.”

                “Kinda like Alice.”

                “Yes.  Only this isn’t the same as Wonderland.  This is our lives.  Here.  Now.”

                Jen turned and paced up and down three squares on the sidewalk.  She could feel Rhys watching her, waiting for her answer.  She didn’t really want to know, yet there was something compelling her to find out.  Something whispering that this wasn’t just about her ex, but something bigger.

                Whirling on her heel, she marched back to Rhys, “Tell me.  I’ve been through quite the tour of Hell already.  This’ll be just another part.”

                Jen thought she saw Rhys smile a little.  Something told her he wanted her to know.

                “Werewolves are real.  Your ex is one.”

                Jen laughed, “Nice.  Now what’s the real story?”

                Rhys looked around for several seconds then stepped back.  Jen opened her mouth to say something when a hazy cloud began shimmering around Rhys, almost like a heat mirage.  Jen rubbed her eyes, but it was still there.

                “Mr. Waylon?” Jen scrubbed at her face again, “Rhys?”

                The haze cleared.  Jen was left staring at a wolf.  Blacker than a moonless midnight and almost twice as large as the average grey wolf, the wolf’s yellow eyes pierced hers with an intelligence that confirmed.  It was Rhys.

                “Holy shit,” Jen wanted to scream but almost didn’t manage a whisper.

A Test of Sorts

Write at the Merge gave us this quote: 

“Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?”

― Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle

this picture:

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

and 500 words with which to come up with something.  This is a continuation of my White Wolves story.  To get the other parts, follow the tab at the top of the page.  As always, concrit is most welcome as I tend to get these written and one quick edit before posting.

“Ms. Becker”

“Jen, please.  I feel old being addressed so formally,” Jen’s nerves pitched her voice higher than normal.  She though she sounded like a scared mouse, or one of her son’s squeaky toys.  That thought brought tears to her eyes, but she fought them back not wanting to start this meeting off with a bad impression.

He flashed a brief smile, “Jen, then.  We’ve been looking into your situation.  We have a few concerns we need to clear up.”

Jen’s heart leapt into her throat cutting off her voice almost entirely, “What?”

“Your son’s father,” Rhys appeared to hesitate.

“What about him?  He’s not around.  He doesn’t have any rights to Curran.”

“We know.  We also know he’s in prison for first degree assault with a deadly weapon.  What we need clarified is your role in that charge.”

“What!  Why the hell does that matter?  The bastard was trying to kill me because I stopped him from beating my son for dropping some Cheerios on the kitchen floor,” Jen jerked to her feet, knocking the chair back, “You know what?  Forget it.  I’m leaving.”

Rhys stood and touched her shoulder as she turned, “Wait.  Please.”

Jen froze but did not turn back to him.  He took his hand from her shoulder.

“That’s what we needed to see.”

She turned at that, “You needed to know how much of a jerk my son’s father is?  How stupid I was at the time for thinking I could have a relationship with the asshole?  That the only good thing I ever got out of him was my son?”

“No.  We needed to see how far you’d go to protect your son.”

“You could have just asked.”

“Words mean little.  Actions are truth.  Isn’t that right?”

Jen sat as if the bones in her legs had disappeared.  He was right and she knew it.  They were the words she’d been living by these last two years.

“Come walk with me.  The fresh air and movement will do you some good,” Rhys held out one hand, almost as if it was a peace offering.

Jen nodded and allowed Rhys to escort her from the bar.  Logic screamed at her that this was a bad idea, but instinct said otherwise.  Jen had been learning to trust her instinct more often as logic seemed to fail her too many times lately.

A cool mist had enveloped the area while they talked inside.  The trees seemed to weep, their tears dampening the road beneath their drooping branches.

“We needed to know how far you’d go to protect your son because we have some leads.  But it’s going to be a tough road and there’s no guarantee about what will happened before it’s all over.”

“I don’t care.  I need my son.  Do you know where he is?”

“Not yet.  But we know he’s alive.  And we know his father isn’t what he seems, either.”

Be sure to check out the other responses to this prompt.  The badge below will take you right there!

No Going Back

This week Trifecta gave us the word Father, as in: a. one related to another in a way suggesting that of father to child or b : an old man —used as a respectful form of address.  I went back to a story I started - coincidentally via Trifecta prompts - for this one.  The first two parts to the story can be found here and here.

As always, concrit is most welcome.

            The next afternoon passed in a haze of nerves.  Jen had thrown her mother out for the day because she’d been driving Jen nuts.  Okay.  She’d done it a little more politely than that, but still.  Her mother was getting so pessimistic about things it almost felt as if she didn’t want to find Curran alive and Jen got sick of it.

            As the meeting time with Rhys Waylon approached, Jen found herself pacing the house and checking her reflection every five minutes.

            “Jesus Christ!  You’d think I was going out on a blind date or something,” she muttered after reassuring herself for the twentieth time her make-up hadn’t smudged in the two minutes since the last time she’d checked.

            Then again, the last blind date she went on was with Curran’s father.  Not that the jerk had ever been much of a real father.  Sperm donor was more like it.  Then it hit her.  Jen realized that relationship, such as it had been, was the last time she’d been out with a man.  Even though this meeting was business and not romantic, it was the first time in two years she was meeting a man at a bar.

            The never ending line of minutes marched on oblivious to Jen’s nerves.  Eventually the time did come for her to head to Jack’s.

            The bar was just as dirty and rundown appearing as it had been last night.  Her heart in her throat, Jen stepped inside.  There was a man sitting in a corner table.  She noticed right away how he sat with his back to the wall, hidden in the shadows, yet some sense told her he saw everything that happened in the place.

            She took the gallows walk to his table, instinct telling her this was the man she was looking for.

            “Mr. Waylon?”

            “Please, as I said, call me Rhys.  Have a seat.  We have a lot to discuss, Ms. Becker.”

             Jen sat.  It was too late to back out now.

All In

Trifecta gave us a fun prompt this week:

ZOMBIE (noun)

1

usually zombi

a :  the supernatural power that according to voodoo belief may enter into and reanimate a dead body

b :  a will-less and speechless human in the West Indies capable only of automatic movement who is held to have died and been supernaturally reanimated

b :  a person markedly strange in appearance or behavior

2

a :  a person held to resemble the so-called walking dead;especially :  automaton

3

:  a mixed drink made of several kinds of rum, liqueur, and fruit juice

As always, it is the third definition and we have to respond with 33-333 words.  My response is a continuation of a recent Trifecta prompt - Catching a Rainbow.  Enjoy!

He answered on the second ring, “Waylon.”

“Umm.”

“What can I help you with, ma’am?”

“This guy.  A bartender at Jack’s.  He gave me your number.”

“I know.  You need help with something.  That’s why he gave you my number.”

“My son.  He was taken five week and two days ago.  The police have nothing.  I need someone to help me find him.”

She hated how pathetic, weak, and desperate she sounded.  But, in the end, that didn’t matter.  Getting Curran back was all that did.

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Jen Becker, Mr. Waylon,” she took a deep breath, “And, Mr. Waylon.  I don’t know what you do, but please.  I need your help.”

“Call me Rhys, Ms. Becker.  And yes.  I will help.  That’s why I needed to know your name.  Meet me at Jack’s tomorrow night at nine.  I’ll let you know where we go from there.”

“Oh my god.  Thank you so much.”

“Until then, Ms. Becker.”

The line went dead.  Jen struggled to summon the energy to even put her phone away.  She knew, beyond any doubt, that Rhys Waylon would help her where no one else would.  They all told her Curran was dead and to be ready to find nothing more than his little body cold and still.  Rhys Waylon was the first who took her seriously.

“Here, Jen.  Drink this.  It’ll help,” the bartender handed her a reddish colored drink.

Operating on auto-pilot, Jen took the glass and sipped the drink.  After a few minutes a warmth and lightness washed through her.  She jerked her head up looking for who was in the bar.  The bartender was it.

“What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing.  It’s my version of a Zombie.”

“There’s more than alcohol in this!”

“I tweaked the recipe a little.  I mean you no harm.  You needed something to steady your nerves before you fell off the barstool.  My Zombie does that.”

She stood and realized she did indeed feel much better.

Catching a Rainbow

Trifecta gave us a great prompt this week.  The word rainbow as in an illusory goal or hope.  I've been contemplating an idea for a while now, but I think I've been waiting for the right prompt to get it going.  This prompt seemed to be it.  So, any concrit is welcomed.  I did write this fairly quickly as my son decided to take an hour to go to sleep tonight, which cut into the time I had to write.

“Honey.  You have to stop chasing that rainbow.”

She turned to stare at her mother, “How the hell can you say that!  He’s your grandson!”

“I want him back as much as you do, Jen.  But it’s been two months.  You know what the police have said.”

“You’re writing him off.  He’s still alive.  I know it.”

“You’re hoping he is.  Jen, I understand.  But we need to be realistic.”

“No, Mom.  I believe in my son.  That’s not unrealistic, foolish hope or anything else.  That’s a mother loving her son.”

Jen threw down the dish rag and stormed out.  Her mother’s words made her physically ill.  In her heart, Jen knew Curran lived.  Somewhere.

Some instinct drove Jen to a rundown bar several blocks from her house.  She never drank anymore.  Not since finding out she was pregnant with Curran two years ago.  That accident probably saved her life.  Things were out of control before that.  They still were for Curran’s father.

Shaking her head to clear the memories, Jen pushed the door open.  The inside was small, but surprisingly clean.  She sat down at the end of the bar uncertain of what she was doing or looking for.

“Can I help you?”  The bar tender sauntered toward Jen while giving her a thorough once over.

“I’d like a Coke, please.”

One dark brow arched over hazel eyes.  He poured her the Coke and leaned back after collecting her money.

“What else?”-

“Nothing else, just the Coke, thanks.”

“You’re lookin’ for something.”

She blinked, “My son.  He was taken five weeks and two days ago.”

Jen wasn’t sure why she’d told him that.

“What’re you willing to do?”

“Anything.”

He slipped her a card, “Call him.”

Printed in block letters, the card read Rhys Waylon.  White Wolves.  Justice is Swift.  555-489-2012.

“Who is he?”

“He leads the White Wolves.  They’re better than the police.  But, it may cost ya, and not in money.”

She pulled out her cell phone without any hesitation.