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!

HoloPlanet

I combined two prompts this week.  Studio 30+ gave us the words planet and loathe.  Write at the Merge gave us this quote

“Sometimes legends make reality, and become more useful than the facts.”

~ Salman Rushdie

and this picture

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

Here is my response:

“You mean I can do all of this with my mind here?”

“Yes.  This planet creates what you imagine.  It will keep filling up empty space until none is left.”

“What happens then?”

“Then it resets.  Starts over.  But you need to be careful here.”

“Why?”

“Because you can interact with your creations.  You are not simply an outside observer.  When you start exploring what you created, you are bound to continue until you reach the end of your creation.”

“Why is that so bad?”

“Come with me.”

I followed him down a path in between two separate worlds.  My utility suit felt a little sticky and, in all honesty, I was itching to create a nice beach where I could take it off and relax in the warm sun.

We stopped in front of a third world.  It was tenement complex bigger than any I had ever seen back on Old Earth.  Lights were on in the windows.  I even thought I could smell a variety of dinners wafting their aromas down alleys and across the empty boundary line to my scent deprived nose.

“I still don’t get it.”

“Where does this end?  Do you see it?  How many apartments do you think are in this world?  How many scenes to play out in each apartment?”

“I don’t know for sure, but from what I can see there’d be a lot of apartments to check out.”

“Too many.  The student who built this world detested authority.  He wouldn’t accept my rules and expectations for him no matter how hard I tried.”

“I would loathe it too, if I didn’t know how much was at stake with this project.”

“He’d forgotten that.  He was stuck in the creation, figuratively.  Now he is literally.”

I turned to my trainer, my jaw dangling in the fictitious breeze.

“Yes.  That is correct,” my trainer interpreted the look on my face, “He is stuck in there until he has explored every tenement building, every apartment, every scene.  That is the one rule here.  You must finish what you start.”

No wonder my trainer was a legend.  He’d been out here for fifteen years training in new graduates where the passing rate was only about twenty five percent and the consequence for failure was all too often death.

For the first time I really understood what I was facing.  And I was terrified.

Any concrit you have is most welcome.  Be sure to click on the images below to see other great responses to these two prompts.

                                                      

The Old Ways

I want to throw a quick couple things out there before I get to posting my response to this week's Write at the Merge.  First, I will try really hard to get to other links.  But, please bear with me as it may take me a bit of time between working full time, grad school part time, and a 17 month old.  Also, due to the aforementioned list of stuff going on, this got dashed out in about a half an hour.  It is another scene to a longer short story I'm working on.  I will try to get back and add in the links to the rest of the story, but for some reason the labels aren't working right at the moment.  Anyway, concrit is most welcome.  I'd love to hear what works and what doesn't in the scene as I'm not entirely sure it's right yet.  So, click on the link here to see the prompt (and check out other responses!) and let me know what you think!

Maroshek wandered down the path among the Firs in the royal gardens.  The acrid odor of smoke mingled with the fresh, crisp pine sap.  Pieces of his armor dotted the trail behind him as if they were some twisted mushroom like blight in the perfection of the park.

He reached a small clearing and fell to his knees, no longer caring what his actions looked like to anyone who might see him.  It was over.  And she hadn't come.  The fires twisted and danced through the battle for the city as if they were djinn from the old stories.  But she wasn't there.

“Take me!” he screamed into the hazy night air as crazed shadows from the thousand fires twisted around him, “I surrender.  I have failed in the one sacred duty of my House and have lost all honor,” his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper as he collapsed into the cool grass.

Maroshek jerked upright as the soft swish of a footstep penetrated his whirling thoughts.  Out of the shadows a figure approached him.  Just out of arm’s reach it stopped.  A flicker of light flitted through the clearing illuminating the figure.

Jaylen.

She smiled as she knelt in front of him, brushing his face with the back of her hand, “Maroshek.  I knew you’d come.  I knew you’d save me.  Bring me back.”

“How?  I.  What?”

“Shh.  You are paralyzed with questions, with doubts.  But you held to the old ways.  Your faith.  Your sacrifice.  That is what kindled the magic to complete my rebirth.”

“My sacrifice?  You mean the old ways are real?”

“Yes.  The old ways are real.  I’ve learned much while I was gone.  Our houses let the old ways die.  What once were sacred rites became meaningless ritual.  As the rites faded, the magic within my house dwindled.  That is why the House of Phoenix nearly died.  It was your sacrifice that completed the process and allowed my return.  Just as the old ways prescribed.”

“What did I sacrifice?  I still live, though I would have gladly died for you, right?”

“You still live.  This is not a dream, nor is it heaven.  But you were willing to sacrifice all that you are.  The surrender of your essence, your soul if you will, became the offering.  It opened the way for me to come back, not just touch this world from afar.”

Jaylen pulled him to her, his head resting against her chest.  He was tired, so tired.  With her new found powers, Jaylen washed away some of Maroshek’s fatigue.  Just enough to allow him to finish his job within the city.

He pulled away after a bit, “What about the fires in the city?  They are too great.  The city is lost.”

“It is not lost.  It is cleansed,” seeing the look on Maroshek’s face she continued, “Go.  See for yourself.  Then come back to me at the palace.  Though the battle is won, there is much still to do.”

A Chance Encounter

This week I combined two prompts.  Trifecta gave us the word tush - as in buttocks - and Write at the Merge gave us a quote about parties from The Great Gatsby.  This is what I came up with.  It's a scene from a short story I started (but haven't finished yet) for this year's NaNo - which I did not win.  But that's okay.  As always concrit is welcome and be sure to check out both sites for some great stories!

            Two days later Nick found himself escorting Rachel to some big party she got invited to for her job.  He didn’t really feel like partying still, but she hadn’t left him much choice.  He was no closer to solving the mystery of the old passkey.  Rachel still wouldn’t leave him alone about it.  And he’d been having weird dreams about trees and open spaces.  At first Nick thought that was just because of the argument he and Rachel had gotten in about the stupid key and his daydreaming after that.  But, the dreams lingered long after any other dream he’d had was forgotten.

Worse yet, once they’d gotten there Rachel decided she needed to hook him up with someone there.  Her catty comments were about to drive him up the wall.

            “What about her?  She has a nice tush at least.”

            “What!  Did you really just use the word tush?”

            “Why?  What’s wrong with tush?”

            “This is the twenty-fifth century, Rachel.  People just don’t use words like that anymore.”

            “Whatever.  I like the word.  Besides, you’re trying to get out of answering my question.  What do you think of her?”

            “Rachel.  She’s like twice my age at least.  And so much of her is fake I’m not sure she’s human anymore.”

            “So now you have a thing against body modification now, too?”

            “Ah.  I prefer a date to be at least mostly real flesh and blood.  Not synth modifications.”

            “You are never going to get laid.”

            With that Rachel stomped off.  At least stomped as much as she could in five inch stiletto heels.  Nick made his way to the balcony overlooking the city.  He stared out past the massive generators and imagined whole forests of trees and wished for the millionth time he could see a real, live tree.

            “Kind of a depressing sight, isn’t it?”
             Nick turned to see a drop dead gorgeous young woman swirling wine in a glass leaning on the balcony rail.

An Old Acquaintance

Write at the Merge gave us Guns N' Roses November Rain and Shakespeare's quote "The third day comes a frost, a killing frost."

This is the current scene I'm working on in a short story for NaNo.  It was originally suppose to be a Precipice submission earlier this year, but that obviously didn't happen.  Oh well.  As always, any concrit is much appreciated.

The light in the windows faded into a dirty orangish glow that was rather fitting for a mid-November evening before disappearing entirely.  The faint twinkle of stars fell short of the warehouse floor.  The temperature started to drop.  I was getting cold.  It wasn’t the frosty cold from Minnesota that I was used to.  But it was cold enough I was starting to shiver.

I sensed the movement more than saw it gliding out of the darkness.  My jaw dropped when I realized I knew this werewolf.

“What the hell are you doing, Lawrence?”

“How many times did I tell you, little druid, that I needed you?”

He had said that on numerous occasions before Kris kicked him out about a year ago.  I just figured he had a thing for me.  And, seeing as there were way more males than females in the pack, some of the males would try to seduce a female away from which ever male she was with.

“This is one hell of a way to win a girl’s heart.”

“It isn’t your heart I want.  Not anymore.”

At least I hadn’t been far off the mark back when he was still with Kris.

“I’m not giving you a blood sacrifice.  What you’re asking for is wrong and you know it.  That ritual won’t give you the kind of power you’re looking for.”

“There is only one kind of power.  And I need it.  Kris is wrong.  We can’t keep living among the humans.  Not anymore.  Not when there are so many more than there ever used to be.  We should be ruling them, not hiding.”

“That ritual will corrupt you.  It will eat you alive.  I will not be a party to your destruction despite you 

kidnapping me.”

“You’re wrong.  I can control it.”

“No one can.  That is why it is a forbidden ritual.  It never should have existed, much less survived this long.  Lawrence, let me go.  I’ll talk to Kris.  See if you can come back.  The others can come, too.”

“He’ll never let me back.  Not after abducting you.”

“For me, he will.”

“The ritual begins the day after tomorrow at sunset.”

Lawrence turned to walk away.

“That ritual will kill me, Lawrence.  You know that, right?”

He froze, “I know.”

Then he left me to shiver in the empty loneliness of the warehouse.

Be sure to follow the link above to other great stories based on these two ideas!

A Path

Write at the Merge gave us the following two pictures as our prompt this week:

This is my response:

A Path

Stretching out

Above

As below

Diverging ways

Await

Mystery

Or certainty?

So many

Infinite choices

Twinkle and glow

Beckoning

Pleading

Choose.

A Samhain Tale

This week Write at the Merge gave us, technically, three things for our prompt.  The first was to write something from scratch.  Then we were given a picture of peaches and a picture of fresh bread to help conjure up our piece.  And, since Halloween is just around the corner and I was already in mind of it from the Master Class assignment, I wanted to spin another Halloween tale.  I will admit this came in just over the 500 word limit.  I cut as much as I felt like I could in the time I had.  Please forgive me the extra few words and enjoy the tale!

“Come, children.  Gather round and I will tell you a tale,” the woman gestured as the firelight flickered around her whitened hair.

The children crowded around and settled in the grass, slices of apple and fresh bread in little hands.  When they grew quiet the woman continued.

“Samhain is a time when the veil to the Otherworld grows thin.  Spirits come back to roam this land.  But, sometimes, other things come, too.  Creatures who live in the Otherworld.”

The children were rapt, apples forgotten.

“Once, many years ago, a fairy came through.  Not the tiny creatures called fairies now.  But a creature tall and beautiful.  She had magic, strong magic.  She was curious about this world.”

“Why, Maimeo?  Why was she curious?”

“She wanted to understand why the spirits came back here, child, so she followed them across the veil.  

Gigantic feasts were laid out for the spirits.  Bonfires were as thick as fireflies across the countryside.  Music, guises, and games abounded.  She was so drawn to this world that she was not watching the time.  What happens when dawn comes after this night?”

“The veil closes and the spirits cannot pass through, Nana.”

“Yes, little one.  Those spirits trapped here must remain until the veil thins again.  And the same happened for the fairy.  Only, she was not meant to live here.”

“What did she do, Maimeo?”

“She had to find a way to survive.  So she went to Clann Carthaigh,”

“That’s us!”

“It is.  She asked your grandfathers and grandmothers for guest right until the veil thinned enough for her return to the Otherworld.  The Clann was concerned.  Fairies were not known to be very hard working creatures and winter was drawing near.  They talked late into the next night before they decided to take pity and grant her guest right.

“At first things went well.  She was a beautiful fairy and did everything she could to repay her debt for she knew of their concern.  But, things did not stay that way.  The neighboring Clann Suibhne grew jealous of the riches the fairy brought Clann Carthaigh.  Clann Suibhne began to raid Clann Carthaigh.  Soon, men were killed in the raids.  Both clanns swore blood oaths to teach the other that they were not weak.

“The fairy felt terrible that her efforts were bringing sadness, anger, and blood shed to Clann Carthaigh.  She went to the chieftain and asked for one night.  In that night, she promised she would end the feud between the clanns.  He wasn't sure he believed she could, but gave her that night.

“No one knows what happened that night.  Clann Suibhne speaks not of it.  But they left this county and have never returned.  Some say the fairy cursed them.  Others say she bribed them.  That is why they say to cross a fairy is bad luck indeed.”

The children sat in silence, listening to the fire crackle and starting at shadows.  They finished their apples and bread before thanking the woman and moving off to their beds.

In the firelight the woman watched, a slow smile and a glimmer of something more in her tilted violet eyes.

In Between

Write at the Merge gave us a photo and a Sylvia Plath quote this week.  The link will take you to the details of the prompt and other great responses.  Please be a little kind in any concrit.  I don't write much poetry anymore.

It’s the breath

     Before the first lightning strike

     In the coming storm

It’s the moment

     When Summer flies

     But Fall has not yet come

It’s the time

     When the sun has slipped away

     But darkness tarries

It’s the pause

     Before the plunge

     Into the unknown

The Space Between

I really enjoyed the prompt from Write at the Merge this week.  While the music itself wasn't connected to my writing, the idea of the space between was what got the wheels turning.  This is another excerpt out of a long, and yet unfinished, work.  Any concrit, as always, is much appreciated.

Mesara slipped to the ground.  Her dark hair created an inky shadow across her face.  Tyrhan, across the cavern and still engaged with one of the Renashi, caught her collapse through the fighting.  The stellar nimbus surrounding her was gone.  Fear strangled his heart.

Tyrhan maneuvered the Renashi into giving him an opening.  He dispatched the Renashi with a quick thrust to the chest.  Tyrhan used his momentum to push the body out of his way.  He needed to find Meathar and get them both to Mesara.  Most of the Renashi were fleeing now.  Tyrhan hoped that meant Mesara and Meathar were able to defeat Amnor, but finding out didn’t matter that much at the moment.  Making sure Saylen’s children were still alive did.

Meathar had been between Tyrhan and Mesara when the fight began.  As Tyrhan pushed his way through the remnants of the fleeing Renashi, using his sword to clear a path as needed, he found Meathar covered in blood.

“I’m all right.  It’s Amnor’s.”

“Mesara’s down,” Tyrhan reached down to pull the younger man to his feet.

As Meathar got to his feet he froze, “Look up.”

The Wildrose vines that had been raining from the ceiling were gone.  Vanished as if they never existed.  The two men locked looks for a moment.  No words were needed.  As one they turned and sprinted to Mesara’s side.

Meathar pulled his sister into his lap, cradling her to him, “Come on, ‘Sara.  Wake up.”

Tyrhan searched for a wound but found nothing.

Several tense seconds passed.  Then, Mesara reached up to touch Meathar’s face.

“I’m sorry.”

Her eyes still closed, she stretched her other arm out to take Tyrhan’s hand.

“I’m so sorry.”

Then she went limp.

No Sleep Til Brooklyn

Write at the Merge gave us a picture of a sign for Millie's Tavern and the Beastie Boys song "No Sleep Til Brooklyn" this week.  Don't ask me where it came from cuz I don't know, but here's my response to this prompt.  It's a bit rough, and a bit longer than it should be, as I didn't get as much time to edit as I wanted.  Stupid work and stupid road construction level traffic.

“No sleep – til Brooklyn,” the radio blared.  My buddy and I were on our way there, following that old Beastie Boys song for spring break.  When you go to school in a nowhere town in northern Georgia, there isn’t much to do.  We were crossing some mountains in West Virginia when Nate decided he was hungry, so I agreed to stop in the next town where we saw a restaurant.

I don’t remember the town but I remember the pub.  Millie’s Tavern.  Nate loved it the moment he saw the sign.  He loved those old, hole in the wall places.  Millie’s fit that.

We went in and sat down.  The waitress came and took our orders.  She plopped down two mugs of beer and took off into the kitchen.  Nate and I were the only two in the place so it didn’t take long for our food to arrive.

As we polished off our meal two girls walked in.  They were hot.  I’m talking movie star, fashion model hot.  I was so stunned when they sat down at our table I couldn’t tell them my name until Nate kicked me.  When they started flirting with us I almost forgot I had a girlfriend.  Nate didn’t, so when the girls hinted at giving him some action, he was all over that.

“I’ll be back in a while.  No sleep til Brooklyn.”

He all but ran after the girls.  I settled back in my chair.  I don’t think it was five minutes after Nate left that this little old lady with a suitcase size handbag walked in and made her way to me.

“Where’d they go?”

“Who?”

“Those two girls that just walked in, dunderhead.”

“They took off with my friend to a back room.”

“Damn it.  Here.  Take this.  Stay behind me and keep that handy.  It may save a life tonight.”

She thrust a bottle of water at me.  I took it on instinct.  She took off toward the back.  I trailed after feeling ridiculous for following this little grandma.

She stopped at the door where it was obvious Nate and the girls had gone.  Then, this old woman pulled a sawed off shot gun out of that handbag.  She stepped back, hiked up her skirt  and kicked it in.

The scene was straight out of a John Carpenter movie.  Nate’s blood was raining down on him and the girl at his neck like confetti in Time’s Square at New Year’s.  The other girl was lapping it up off of them.

Grandma swung the shotgun as if it were a Louisville Slugger, knocking both girls away from Nate.

“Don’t let them get past you!” as the girls scrambled to get away.  The naked fear in their eyes seemed so odd being inspired by this old woman.  She flipped the shotgun back around and calmly blew a hole through the chest of each girl.  Then, as they struggled to move away from her, Grandma pulled a machete out of that handbag and cut off their heads.  The bodies dissolved into dust.  She wiped her hands off and turned to Nate.

“Hand me that water.”  Numb, I followed her direction.  When she dumped it on Nate’s neck he began to scream.  She slugged him across the temple knocking him out.

“I hate it when they scream like that.  Gives me a headache,” she rummaged in her handbag and dug out several crosses and a bandage.  Grandma wrapped Nate’s neck and hung a cross around it.  She handed me the other one.

“Put that on.  That’ll keep you safe until the glamour wears off.  Once that’s gone, none of these bitches can find you again unless you’re stupid enough to follow them.  Your friend will be fine.  Let him sleep tonight and by morning there won’t be any signs of the attack left.”

With that, Grandma picked up her things and clomped out of the room.

We never made it to Brooklyn.

The Parking Lot Battle

This week I combined the prompt from Write at the Merge with the prompt at Trifecta.  The brilliant minds at Write at the Merge gave us pictures of a pink scooter and a crocodile.  Trifecta gave us the word charm, as in to charm an animal.  Here's what I came up with:

            I pounded on the steering wheel of my truck.  I couldn't believe she’d done it again.  This was the third time that blond haired witch cut in between parked cars to take a spot from me with that horrid Mary Kay pink scooter of hers.  Who on earth would choose to drive a scooter that color anyways?

            I circled the parking lot for fifteen minutes looking for another spot contemplating ways to get even with that evil woman.  At the twenty-minute mark, a place opened up in the very back of the lot bordering on the large drainage pond.  It meant I’d have to walk close to a mile, but at least I had a place to park.

            My truck rattled its typical death wheeze as I turned it off.  Looking up and taking a deep breath before getting out into the stifling Florida humidity, I saw the answer to my dilemma.  I had a way to get back at that bleach bottle blond.  My door creaked open and I tip toed to the back of my truck.  I dug around and got out a few supplies.  Then, I went to make the acquaintance of the large crocodile sunning himself near my truck.

           With a few quick preparations, I was able to charm the massive creature.  He got up and lumbered off into the parking lot.  I smiled, put my things away, and began the hike.  Along the way, I saw my scaly friend again.  He had cozied up to that Pepto-Bismol pink scooter and went back to sleep.  Revenge is sweet.

Defining Purpose

Let me start by saying, I did write this piece pretty fast.  It was a scene that came to mind after reading the prompts from Write at the Merge and Trifecta this week.  It is a quick sketch as I am working on squeezing in some fun writing time between my 11 month old son, starting a new job later this month and grad school.  But I wanted to get back in the habit of responding to the prompts.  So, here it is.  I'm not entirely sure my use of the Trifecta word "Fly" fits the third definition, but I think it does.  If not, please let me know.  Either way, check out other entries at the links above.

            “I’ve been thinking,” a blond youth commented.

            “You know that’s a dangerous past time,” his teacher replied with a smile, “What’s on your mind, Jaris?”

            “What makes something what it is?”

            The older man’s brow crinkled and his wooly bear caterpillar eyebrows drew down to shade his dark eyes.

            “I mean, sir, the old saying about a bell being just a cup until it is struck.  But, that’s not entirely true.  One could strike a cup in the same manner as one struck a bell but it’s still a cup.  What makes the bell different, Marken?”

            Marken stopped walking, his brow smoothed, and his eyes lost focus.  Jaris waited while his teacher pondered his question.  After several minutes of still silence, Marken began to move down the trail, only at a slower pace this time.

            “Purpose,” he finally spoke to his pupil, “A thing’s purpose is what defines it.  Take the statues around us.”

            “What statues?” Jaris scanned the boulders they’d been passing.

            “Look closer,” Marken paused in their journey.

            Jaris circled several boulders before coming to one near Marken.  Rounding the backside, Jaris made out the weather worn features of a face.  Part of the cheek and nose were missing.

            “I didn’t know these rocks used to be statues.”

            “Exactly.  They lost their purpose.  Without that, they ceased to be statues and became rocks.”

            Marken leaned against the rock head while Jaris pondered this.  He knew his apprentice needed some time to think before he let the next question fly.  Marken even had an idea as to what it would be.  Too bad he didn’t have an answer.

            “I know I’m the chosen of the gods.  But what does that mean, Marken?  What is my purpose?”

Two Choices

Once again, I must apologize if this is a bit rough.  I'm writing it at about 10:00 PM after a LOOONG day at work preceded by multiple other LOOONG days at work.  But, that's what I get for working in the behavioral health care field with teenagers some times.  In all honesty I love my kids I work with, it just gets rather overwhelming at times.

Anyways, I did combine Trifecta's prompt, the word path as in course, route or way of life, and part of Write at the Merge's prompt, a stained glass window to bring you this.  I did just, unfortunately, realize I didn't get this done in time to link up to Trifecta's challenge, but that's okay. 

It is the next part of the story of Emma, James and Kris.  If you've missed some of the story, the tab labeled One Night In Dusseldorf at the top will give you the links to the rest of the story.  Here it is.  Please enjoy.

I still couldn’t wrap my mind around what Kris was saying.  It sounded so unbelievably ridiculous, but he was serious.  I could almost hear the air between us crackling with the tension of the moment.  He wanted me, needed me, to believe him.  I just stood there like an idiot unsure of myself.

“Follow me,” he snapped, loping off into the woods.

I trailed behind him, still trying to digest his words.  I rounded a bend in the path and stopped.  The path descended into a small hollow.  In the center was a small rough stone chapel like building.  The windows were stained glass that threw brilliant rainbows around the clearing.  It looked like a sea of color had rained down and filled the depression.

Kris gestured and I stepped up to the building.  It was older than I’d first thought.  Being the daughter of a historian specializing in architecture came in handy right then.  I estimated the tiny structure to be at least five to six centuries old, maybe older.

“My great-great grandfather built this chapel.  He wanted to remind my people of the choice we made back then.  My people were dying, hunted and feared by missionaries to this land who didn’t understand us.  A druid came to my great-great grandfather and offered him a choice.  One path led to a life where we survived but had to adapt to a new world.  The other one ended with my people being hunted down like rabid dogs.”

As he told me this story, we circled the chapel.  Each window depicted in surprising color and detail different scenes from the story.  We stopped in front of the south end.  The window covered most of the wall.  And indicated the choice that was made.

“We agreed to become the guardians of the druids.  That druid changed us to make us better protectors.”

Then it happened.  The air around Kris shimmered.  He disappeared.  In his place was a black wolf watching me with Kris’s eyes.

Also, please head on over to Trifecta and Write at the Merge's websites to read other great authors and their inspirations from the prompts.

Fated

Write at the Merge had a great prompt this week.  Unfortunately I haven't had much time to work on this as things at work have been pretty nuts this week. It's a little rough, but here's my take.  Be sure to check out what others posted in response to the prompt.

The winter wind whistled through the ancient stone halls.  Though not as cold as his previous home, the wind always chilled Reginald.

No, he thought, it’s not the wind.  It’s what comes with the wind.

Reginald hurried through the stone halls, crimson robes streaming behind him.  He didn’t want to be late.  He’d been late before.  It hurt to be late.

But that’s better than missing it all together, he reasoned.

He reached the spiral stairs leading to the top of the east tower and scurried up them.  Reaching the top, Reginald flung open the iron strapped door and stepped out to the parapet walls.  Reginald breathed a sigh of relief.  He’d made it in time.  He spent the next several minutes scouring the skies, looking for any telltale trace of her.

At first he didn’t see her.  His heart raced.  Everything was right.  She had to come.  The old seeress said so.  Then, as his panic tightened icy fingers around his throat, Reginald saw the first sign of her.  Reginald danced in anticipation just like a naïve schoolboy.  The wind whipped particularly hard blinding him for a moment.  When he could see again, she was there on the tower with him.

Reginald fell to his knees.  Tears streamed down his face.  He reached out, hands shaking, praying for a single touch.  A touch that didn’t come.  She wasn’t even looking at him.  She circled the walls, watching the surrounding countryside.

“Sarande,” Reginald whispered.

She turned toward him.  Once again, Reginald’s heart raced.  Joy threatened to crush him.  Just as he believed that this time it worked, she walked right through him without any sign that she knew he was there.

Reginald crumpled, the scarlet fabric pooling around him.  It had failed.  Sarande was the reason he’d fought to take this land, to take Scarborough Castle.  He’d almost died in the fighting.  It had all been for her.

The battle replayed in his mind.  Each move, each sword stroke.  Reginald felt each blow all over again.  Wounded, exhausted, numb, he’d finally reached Sarande.  She turned to look at him as he’d fallen to his knees in front of her.

As Reginald remembered the look on her face, his mind shied away from the image that was indelibly carved into his memory.  Tears poured down his face.

“Why, Sarande?  Why did you do that?  Was I really so bad?” he screamed into the frigid air as she faded away.

A Walk in the Woods

I managed to combine Trifecta's writing prompt with the Write at the Merge prompt this week.  It is revisiting a story I haven't worked on in a while but it fit well.  To completely understand Emma's comment at the beginning, be sure to read the rest of the story, or at least the piece just before this one.  They are in the tab labeled One Night in Dusseldorf at the top of the page.

Here are the prompts for the week:

Trifecta -
This week's word is:

BITCH (noun)

1: the female of the dog or some other carnivorous mammals
2 a : a lewd or immoral woman
   b : a malicious, spiteful, or overbearing woman —sometimes used as a generalized term of abuse
3: something that is extremely difficult, objectionable, or unpleasant

Please remember:

• Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.

• You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.

• The word itself needs to be included in your response.

 

 

Write at the Merge gave us these two things:

 

This week, we have an image and a quotation for you:

image courtesy of lynnsta (via Flickr Creative Commons)

So here's my 333 word take on the two prompts:

            “Well,” I blinked, trying to find words, “Ain’t that a bitch.”

He was right.  We all knew it.  I didn’t want an ordinary life.

            “Come with me,” Kris said in a tone that almost commanded.

            Part of me wanted to refuse just because he expected me to listen.  His jaw tightened.  He saw my instinct to refuse out of spite.

            “Lead on my furry friend.”

            That didn’t seem to go over well either.  But, what can I say?  I tend to be a smart ass when I’m uncomfortable, which was a massive understatement right then.

            I followed Kris through the house, though mansion would be more accurate.  We stepped out onto the huge stone veranda.  I noticed a heart set in stone near the door.  It seemed odd, yet fitting, for Kris.  James trailed behind us.  I got the impression from James that, no matter what Kris did or where he went, James would be right there with him.  Again, I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.  But, what the hell, I was already in way over my head.  What difference would it make to see this through now?

            The formal English garden that greeted me was impressive.  I didn’t think there was a single pebble out of place.  The huge tract of completely untouched land just beyond the garden didn’t fit the scene.

            “Okay.  I’m here.  Why’d you bring me out here?”

            Kris didn’t answer.  He passed through the garden into that undeveloped land and chose a game trail.  James stopped at the edge of the trees.  I hesitated, unsure of what to do.  James gestured for me to follow Kris.

            “You feel better out here,” Kris said once James couldn’t hear us anymore.

            “And how do you know that?”

            “I told you.  You’re a druid.  I’m a faoladh, werewolf for lack of a better translation.  I know what you feel, what you need.  That’s my job.”

            This guy was seriously creeping me out.  What the hell was going on here?

A Choice

This time I combined Trifecta's prompt with the Write At the Merge prompt.  Partly because I am still looking for time to write between a busy work schedule and caring for my 5 month old.  But also because, after mulling over the prompts for a while, they came together in the scene below.  I'm not sure what else there is to the scene at this point, but it is a turning point for Shay.  That's for certain.  Anyways, here were the prompts -

Write At the Merge had us combining a beautiful photo of hot air balloons and the Nirvana song "Plateau".

Trifecta gave us the word Intention.

Here's my offering:

“It’s okay, baby.  We’ll move to Mexico.  Caden can learn Spanish,” his voice faded into a buzz.

It was always the same.  Start over with something else, or somewhere else.  That was always the answer.  Shay’d lost track of how many times Robert told her that.  Each time he managed to convince her that things would be different, that this time it would work.

But nothing ever changed.  Robert would end up doing the same shit and, before long, the same speech would begin again.  Move to a new place, start a new career.

Shay felt like she’d gotten waylaid somewhere along her way to the top.  She’d always aspired to higher things.  Then, somehow, she found herself stuck with Robert.  Pretty, grand words floated in a majestic cloud around him.  But never anything more than another good intention.

That night she chose.  Shay ghosted around the ramshackle apartment collecting her and Caden’s things.  They made a pretty meager pile by the door.  Once they were loaded into the car, she picked up Caden from his temporary nest of blankets on the floor and strapped him in his car seat.  Once he was secured in the car, she drove away.

Will Robert even notice we’re gone, she thought as she glanced back once.  The rundown apartment building dwindled into nothingness in her rearview mirror, taller peaks growing in her mind’s eye.

Wishing

More than a month of neglecting this poor blog and now two posts in one day.  How fortuitous.  I love that word. 

Be sure to check out my earlier post - How to Survive.  I am just realizing there's a bit of a theme to my bits today.

Anyways.  This one is my take on the prompt from Write on Edge's new prompt format, Write at the Merge.  We get a standing 500 words and two things with which to inspire our piece.  This week the two things were the song "The Past and Pending" by The Shins and the word "wish".

While coming in well under the 500 words, I'm not sure my piece needs much else.  Don't get me wrong.  A bit of fine tuning and editing wouldn't hurt, but I don't know that it needs huge amounts of expansion.  Please let me know if I am wrong on that one.  Also be sure to check out the other takes on the prompt here.

On that note - here's my piece.

I sat there, caressing the cold, matte black metal.  This is what my life came down to.  Looking at the hardened steel, I wondered how much blood was on my hands.  More than I really wanted to admit.  I know that for sure. 

That train of thought led me to idle speculation about what my life could have been like.  There was no question where it was going.  A hard, probably brutal, death on the street was all I could look forward to.  But what could it have been like?  What if I would have just accepted being a hot bit to look at on some rich guy’s arm?  Yeah.  I’d have had to accept some damn distasteful things while I was at it.  Would that life have been so bad?.  But I knew I was kidding myself.  I couldn’t have lived that life.  I would never have been able to accept anyone walking on me.  Not after what happened.

That night was why I did what I did, why I became what I am.  I wasn’t going to let anyone walk on me ever again.  It took a long time, a fair amount of pain and more blood than I could ever wash away, but no one has ever taken advantage of me again.  They said I’d never make it in this life; that being a female in this line of work was ridiculous.  Most everyone who’s had the balls to tell me that to my face aren’t saying much anymore.  I’ve gone up against the best when they’ve come after me.  And I’ve won.

But there’s a small part of me that wishes I could go back and undo my past; that I could take the high road instead of selling myself out.

A small noise broke into my thoughts.  Soft taps of footsteps on pavement were heading my way.  The time for thinking was over.  I had to work.