My Flash Fiction

Signs
(For the prompts: shower, fire, trick.)

In the distance, stars rain down like a shower of fire.

Two women watch with awe and trepidation, respectively, from a small clearing.

“Beautiful, is it not?” The first woman says dreamily, one hand soothing across her distended belly. The second woman snorts, and goes back to packing.

“’Tis just another Sign, is all. Next, he’ll make it rain turnips, or hail meat pies, or some pretty trick such as that. The babe already has an odd sense of humor.”

“He takes after his mother.” The first woman’s voice is calmly amused. She, too, turns away from the spectacle, then frowns. “That’s too heavy.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re carrying almost everything we own.” When she gets no reply, the first woman grumbles. “Being with child doesn’t make me frail.”

The second woman hefts her pack experimentally before shrugging into it. “Nonetheless, I’m bigger and stronger than you,” she grunts, her face already lined with strain. But her eyes are steady when she says: “Were there room in my pack, I’d carry everything.”

“I know you would.” The first woman approaches her companion, takes her hand, and pulls it to her stomach. The second woman starts when, under her palm, a small flurry of insistent kicks greets her. “Aye, you’d carry the weight of the world, if it could fit in your pack.”

“Better me than him,” the second woman says almost angrily. The first sighs.

“’Tis his fate—“

“Sod fate! He’s a baby.”

For long moments they stare into each other’s eyes: a silent battle of wills.

“Bethelhame grows no nearer. Time we were off,” the second woman says finally, tersely. The first nods.

But moonrise finds them still standing, gazing at the sky, while between them, the savior of their world kicks and kicks, and waits restlessly to be born.

*

The Sorcerer
(For the prompts: paint, wings, popcorn.)

“Could you stomach some talick, Warrior? ‘Popcorn,’ my people call it. I’d offer you more substantial fare, but I’m afraid the rest of my stores are . . . nonexistent.”

“I won’t eat magicked food.” For the umpteenth time, Dallien tests the sorcerous bonds binding him head and foot.

“Ah, well. Shall I untie you, then?” The Sorcerer asks coyly, crossing his long arms over his chest. His strange, gold-green eyes seem to glow in the firelight. “And if I do, will you grow wings in the night, and fly away?”

Grimly eyeing the Sorcerer sitting across the fire, Dallien snorts. “You’ve bested me in battle. I’m your prisoner, until such time as you, or death release me,” he says bitterly, and the Sorcerer smiles his enigmatic smile.

“Then I shall take you at your word, Warrior.” The Sorcerer snaps his fingers, and Dallien’s bonds fall away. Surprised, he sits up and rubs his slightly numb wrists.

Meanwhile, the Sorcerer gracefully gets to his feet. His paint pony whickers a greeting, and he pats it on the nose.

Then he crosses to where Dallien sits and squats. Unable to help it, Dallien flinches back, making the sign of warding and averting his eyes, lest he be ensorcelled.

“Such a superstitious lot, you Agmenians are.” The Sorcerer takes Dallien’s wrists, examining them briefly. His touch is cool and impersonal, and Dallien is startled into meeting those disturbing eyes again. All he sees there is mirth.

“Who goes a-journeying with nothing but talick?”

Suddenly the mirth is gone. “One who was burned out of his tower and who barely escaped with the clothes on his back. And the sack of talick tied to the horse he was forced to steal.”

Dallien looks away again, guiltily, and curses the day he ever picked up a match.

*

The Stand
(For the prompts: shield, book, tree.)

A man can run—try and shield himself from the truth all he likes, but that don’t make it so the truth won’t eventually out.

I couldn’t accept that then. Couldn’t accept that running would avail me naught. But now . . . after all that running, I sit in the last of a long line of cheap motel rooms, awaiting the fate I’ve put off for decades that’ve both kept me young, and made me ancient beyond my span.

The door opens slow—so slow the whine of its hinges seems to last an eternity. I lay down my book with hands that don’t shake. This is one Elmore Leonard novel that’ll end without me.

“Took you some time,” I note to the shadow in the doorway. It’s as thick and opaque as an oak tree—bulky with darkness. “Figured once I stopped running, you’d be on me like stink on a skunk.”

No reply. I expected as much. No sense drawing out what ought to have been done a lifetime ago, is there?

I nod to myself, tasting the rightness of this sentiment, then I stand up. I know I’m not going a single footstep further than where I now stand. My last stand, and after it, I fall forever.

And yet . . . I’m not scared. Not sad. Not bitter. I’ve had more years than I ought to have had, and after so long spent running, what I feel now is . . . relief.

The shadow in the doorway gains shape, seeming to nod what could pass for a head. What could pass for arms reach toward me, radiating chill like a dark, everlasting star.

I have my final realization: I was wrong. I would be taking one more step. Toward, rather than away from what awaits me.

Almost smiling, I step into the arms of Death. . . .

*

The Stranger
(For the prompts: honey, mountain, water.)

Chanu waits patiently, bowl of watery broth in hand. He’s been sitting thus for nearly a mark, waiting for the ghost-pale stranger to awaken.

Suddenly, the stranger’s remarkable hazel eyes—as clear as a hardpan oasis—open, immediately falling on and pinning Chanu. He licks chapped lips and attempts to sit up.

“Nedaa,” Chanu says firmly, and the stranger frowns, but lies back. He may not speak the language of the Peoples, but no is probably obvious in any language, Chanu supposes, holding out the bowl. The stranger takes it hesitantly, but licks his lips again.

“All for me, I take it,” he says in his honeyed voice and odd, clipped language. Chanu is certain that the stranger, though found wandering the desert—nearly naked, incredibly sunburned, and without water—isn’t of the Peoples.

Maybe he is of whatever people live beyond the Eastern Mountains. . . .

The stranger is eating the broth in hungry slurps, but watching Chanu closely as he does so. Chanu places his hand on his own chest and smiles. “Cha-nu-oo-ah,” he says slowly. “Chanu’ua.”

The stranger stops slurping and looks bemused. “Chanu’ua, is it?”

Chanu nods once. “Ma’ai, Chanu’ua.”

The stranger finishes the broth thoughtfully. When it’s done, he grins. It’s wide, white, and charming. “Thank you, Chanu’ua.”

Another sentiment that reaches across languages. Chanu bows at the waist, then reaches for the bowl. But the stranger catches his wrist, eyes blazing, but confused. Desperate.

Ancient.

“Who are you? I know my ship crashed—but that’s all I remember . . . where am I? Is this Earth?”

Chanu doesn’t recognize any of it. Except maybe. . . .

“Hur’eth?” he asks tentatively, gesturing around them and touching the ground. “Hur’eth?”

The stranger’s eyes well with tears, and he nods, swallowing several times. “Yes, Earth.”

Then he’s unconscious once more.

“Errr’the,” Chanu whispers, and the word tastes strange.

*

Lords of The Hunt
(For the Prompt: Stop acting like an idiot!)

Jason reaches for the goblet, but Glen waves away the persistent fairy. She pouts at him, but doesn’t attempt to come closer.

“We’re not supposed to be eating anything while we’re here!”

Jason glances at the hovering fairy women yearningly. They all have goblets and trays of food. “Dude, I’m just so hungry. . . .”

“So am I. But don’t you think there’s a reason Bronson told us we’re not supposed to eat anything they offer us?”

“That’s just Bronson being Bronson. He’d rather be stuck in Lamontsville, than here!”

“He’s the smartest guy we know. We should—“

But Jason’s snatching the goblet from the fairy maiden and tilting it up to his face. A single drop rolls between his parted lips.

“What the hell, man!” Glen grabs Jason’s shoulders, shaking him. The goblet clatters to the floor, spilling blood-red faery-wine. “Spit it out!”

“Too late.” Jason chuckles and smiles lazily. “Too late, Edric. All it takes is one taste.”

“All what takes?! Jesus, stop acting like an idiot!” Shake-shake.

Jason’s hands grip Glen by the biceps and haul him close. “Just one. Taste,” he repeats, his eyes all pupil, but for the thinnest ring of dark green. Then his lips are pressed firmly to Glen’s. He tastes of wine and salt, wind and rain—of a thousand different things long forgotten. . . .

He blinks open his eyes. “Who—“ he means to ask who and where he, when he remembers.
He is Edric mab y Dderwen, of the Hunt, and this is the Fae Court. In front of him stands his lord and oldest friend, Gwynn ap Nudd, Leader of the Hunt. The eldritch light in his eyes speaks ever of destiny and of death.

“We ride, my lord?” Edric asks breathlessly. In the distance, the Hounds bay wildly. Gwynn ap Nudd smiles.

“We ride.”

*

The Last Scion

“Wake up, Black Lodge.”

He rolls over and away from his visitor.

“Go away,” he mutters into the pillow as his head begins to pound in the familiar Sunday morning hangover. Though, to be honest, it’s actually the day-that-ends-in-Y-hangover. . . .

Turning his head, Ben Nelson squints his eyes open.

At least he was considerate enough to close the blinds. But the little light that leaks in still limns him in gold.

So melodramatic.

Ben turns carefully back onto his side. When he doesn’t throw up, he tries sitting up. Halfway there he gets unasked for assistance in a waft of scents like pine-needles and cured hides.

“Don’t need your help,” he grits out. Strong, gentle hands pull him upright and steady him, anyway. “I just need a little hair of the dog. So pass me a bottle.”

An exasperated sigh. “How long are will you keep living like this, Black Lodge?”

“It’s ‘Ben,’ and I’ll live my life as I see fit.”

“Keep living it like this and you’ll be dead before your time, Bla—Ben. Just like your son.”

Ben shrugs off Coyote’s hands. The room is beginning to blur. It always does when Coyote brings up Joey. Which he often does. “Fuck off.”

Lightning flashes in long yellow eyes. “I am Coyote, and I go whither I will.”

“Do you think you’ll feel like going straight to Hell, anytime soon, Great Spirit?”

More lightning, but it quickly subsides and Coyote’s shoulders sag in defeat. “You’re the last of my line, Black Lodge. You must take better care of yourself.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll get right on that. In the meantime, am-scr—”

Coyote disappears like mist in the morning sun, but the scents of pine and hide still linger. . . .

Ben levers himself to his feet and goes searching for that next drink.

*

The Hitchhiker
(For the prompts: vacation, button, and circle. Written as a companion piece to The Job  .)


Frank Hawkins tools down the highway, keeping one eye on the night sky and the other on the road. He almost doesn’t notice the hitchhiker.

The guy is holding up a cardboard sign that claims: WILL DO DIRTY THINGS FOR A RIDE. THANKS!

Snorting brief laughter, Frank still almost doesn’t stop, but figures he needs a vacation from his own company, and from the gravid circle that is the Moon. . . .

Before Frank knows it, the guy is sliding into the passenger seat and tossing his duffel and sign into the backseat. He’s wearing wrap-around sunglasses, a denim jacket with slogan buttons, and dusty jeans. His pale hair is messy, his grin is wide and white, and he smells faintly of fresh soil.

He grins at Frank and holds out a hand, which Frank takes, noting the genteel slimness of it, and the cool, but undeniably iron grip.

“So. What dirty things are you in the mood for tonight, my man?” The guy’s voice is a springy sort of stand-up-comedian tenor, and only half-joking.

“Just company.” Frank pulls onto the road. “Where ya headed?”

“West,” is the reply. “As far as you feel like taking me.”

“Mm,” Frank murmurs noncommittally. “So, what’s a Vampire doing hitching in the Sunshine State, anyway?”

The guy lowers the sunglasses revealing surprised, pyrite-colored eyes. Then he laughs. “Ah, it’s a long, long story, man.”

Glancing up at the Moon, Frank settles for a white lie. “Idle curiosity.”

The hitchhiker follows Frank’s gaze and squints. “Ah,” he says softly, and: “I see.”

“Do you?” Frank wonders bemusedly, and the hitchhiker readjusts his sunglasses.

“Of course. And I can tell you a tale all the way till moonset, if you like,” he promises solemnly. “I’m Alex, by the way. Alexander Alucard.”

“Frank Hawkins.”

Alex smiles. And starts talking.

*

The Visitor
(For the prompts: tunnel, trap, and hidden.)

Aya tunnels her way up and out from under heavy darkness and coughs wrackingly, opening gritty eyes.

The sudden inlet of light hurts, and she hisses, trying to raise her arm to block it. But her arm is unresponsive, except for a few half-hearted twitches.

Blearily, she tries to move her other arm and encounters the same lack of movement.

She slits her eyes open again, allowing spears of light to skewer them until they adjust. . . .

When chrome-and-white peeks out from behind the haze of light and pain that’d hidden it, she recognizes she is not her own quarters.

Aya tries to bolt up, and can’t. She looks down her body and sees the reason why: there are restraints at shoulder, ribcage, pelvis, and thigh, trapping her body against a metallic table.

She struggles and struggles until some . . . thing hoves into view. With its pale-pale eyes and pasty skin under sparse fur, it’s probably one of the ugliest things she’s ever seen.

It bares its teeth at her and makes sounds she thinks must be a language.

“Yoooo crosh’d heeeer,” it says in a nasally voice, holding up a one-dimensional reproduction of a planet and pointing at a landmass in its northern hemisphere.

It’s then that Aya remembers passing through sector seven-nine-eight-oh-one. Her ship’s antimatter drive had malfunctioned, taking the momentum drive with it, near the sector’s yellow star.

She remembers free-fall toward the third satellite, blue and tan spiralling up to meet her.

She doesn’t remember crashing, though she supposes she must have. . . .

“Yoooo aaaahr heeeer.” The thing jabs its finger at the same landmass, eyes shining with obvious excitement. “Graidbriddin. Graaaaaiiiid-briddin.”

Aya turns her face away as it pulls on polymerized gloves. “Wellgome doooo Uuuurth!”

Something cold, sharp, and metal slides down her sternum.

She screams.

*

Jenny
(For the prompt: They made me do it.)

“They made me do it.

“I know lots of junkies use that excuse: the drugs made me do it, but see, what you don’t understand is that once drugs take hold—once they’ve got you, they don’t let go. They can make you do anything.

“It’s like being possessed. The things it makes you do are wrong. You never help the homeless, or adopt orphans. Shit like that. It’s always knocking over liquor stores, or mugging old ladies. Borrowing money from parents that can’t afford not to see it again, and never paying them back, anyway.

“But that high—it’s like there’s no such thing as low, even though you’re probably lower than just about anyone.

“Shit, even if I could explain it, you wouldn’t care, would you? No, of course not. I don’t blame you. Not one goddamn bit. I—“

“Billy!”

I look up. Tommy and Lyle are waiting for me at the door.

“Quit talkin’ to her and c’mon!” Tommy’s scared, but too much of a follower to desert me.

“Yeah, Bill,” Lyle says irritably, staring out the plexi-glass door. “I think the bitch pushed the fuckin’ silent alarm before you capped her.”

“Whoa,” I mutter, looking back at the dead cashier—Jenny, her nametag says. Poor, brave Jenny. There's a spray of blood on her face, standing out like freckles.

As always, I dig in my pockets for some pennies.

“Will you c’mon, fucker?!” Lyle’s really pissed, now. I hear sirens in the distance and my own sense of urgency suddenly kicks in, loud and clear.

“Sorry, Jenny. Rest in peace.” I kiss her forehead before placing the pennies over her eyelids.

Tommy, Lyle, and I collide with each other trying to be the first one away from the unexpectedly empty cash register, the timer-locked safe, and . . . Jenny. . . .

We run.

*

Villain By Necessity
(For the prompts: bear, spin, and ear.)

Trask paces the room agitatedly, fingers flirting absently about the handle of his revolver.

DeTulio’s eyes follow him, blank and exhausted. He doesn’t even tug at the ropes that restrain hands and feet to the chair.

“That’s everything I know,” he says through loosened teeth and swollen lips. “Everything.”

Trask spins around angrily, his face painted red at cheek and ear, and ice-white everywhere else. “More lies, Benny,” he spits. He can hardly bear the sight of his former friend.

“Virg—“

“Don’t. Call me that,” Trask seethes, head throbbing, teeth clenched. He draws the revolver stalking forward as if to continue pistol-whipping DeTulio, who flinches. But Trask merely aims the gun between DeTulio’s blackened eyes, cocking the trigger and letting cool metal kiss hot skin.

“Where is she?” he demands quietly. DeTulio flinches again, but doesn’t break eye contact. “Where’s Catherine?”

“I swear before God—“

“Leave God outta this.”

“—and on our friendship—“ Trask barks out a laugh. “—I don’t know where they’re keeping your wife!” DeTulio’s pleading eyes still don’t look away. His body is taut like piano-wire.

“Then I don’t need you anymore, do I, Benny?” Trask asks gently, and DeTulio’s eyes widen in their bruised hollows.

“No—Virgil, don’t—“ he stammers, frantically straining away from the now warmed metal of the gun. “Please, don’t—“

“’Bye, Benny.”

The gunshot, muffled though it is by flesh, is still loud in the empty space. Trask doesn’t so much as blink as bits of flesh, bone, and grey matter go splat against the wall.

He wipes the revolver clean on DeTulio’s shirt—Protect and Serve, his badge proclaims—reholsters it shakily.

It’s nearly an hour before he’s sanguine enough to think, let alone act.

Finally, adjusting his own badge, Officer Trask exits the room, going back to square one without a backward glance.

*

Hope
(For the prompts: dress, flip, and triangle.)

Note: Per Wikipedia, “A generation ship is a hypothetical type of interstellar ark starship that travels across great distances between stars at a speed much slower than the speed of light. Since such a ship might take thousands of years to reach even nearby stars, the original occupants of a generation ship would grow old and die, leaving their descendants to continue travelling.”

“Hope?”

“Yes, Keeper?”

Keeper dresses quickly in his atmosphere suit. He has been doing this since he was nine. At twenty, it is second nature to him.

“How long ‘til we get to Sagan IV?”

“Approximately nine hundred sixty-eight years and five months.”

Keeper sighs. “I’ll be dead long before we get there.”

“Yes.”

“What will you do when I die?” he asks curiously. This is the first time he has ever asked, though his predecessors had eventually gotten around to it sooner or later.

“When you die, another keeper will maintain the ship and tend to the passengers in cryo-stasis.”

Keeper nods and puts on his helmet, flipping down the tinted triangular faceplate. “How many keepers have there been?”

“Three hundred nineteen.”

His gasp is audible. “Don’t you ever get . . . sad?”

This is a question none of his predecessors have asked. For nanoseconds, no answer is forthcoming. There is nothing to say, because how can something built to simulate emotion, but not feel it, feel . . . sad?

“Yes.”

Keeper nods again. “I would, too.” He pats the bulkhead reassuringly, then gathers up his tool-kit and exits his quarters. “I wish I could make you happy.”

“You do,” simply comes out, as if programmed to. Yet it is as heartfelt as something without a heart could make it.

He pauses in the corridor and touches a sensor-panel, smiling. Strange that—having never seen another live human, let alone one smiling—smiling comes as naturally to him as breathing.

“You make me happy, too,” he says warmly, letting his hand linger. Inasmuch as a ship can appreciate touch, it . . . feels. . . .

If I had eternity of his touch . . . it still would not be enough.

If I had breath, it would catch.

If I had a heart, it would break.

If I were human I would—

*

Necromancer
(For the prompts: Don't say I didn't warn you.)

Jakken steps out of the circle before adding the final stone that closes it and separates him from Alesdair.

The shade wrings his hands, looking frail and trapped, as he’d never looked in life. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you about this, Jakken.”

“I won’t,” Jakken promises. “No matter what happens, do not step outside the circle.”

Alesdair nods once, pale even for the dead. He looks around the circle, then back at Jakken. “How will I know it’s work—”

Jakken abruptly pushes off his robe, revealing recent, raw, still glowing sigils: tattooed, cut, and branded into every inch of skin. “Cluortho!” He intones, and the sigils begin to sink inward. To wrap around something at his core—something as precious as it is immaterial—taking, but without giving back.

This will not do.

“Cluortho!” Jakken demands again, raking his nails down his chest. Blood drips to the floor where it hisses, evaporating into red steam that fills the whole room with the scents of copper and magic. “Radim! Radim cluortho!”

The sigils sink into his marrow . . . but finally release magic as primitive as it is powerful. Jakken screams in agony as his substance is unwound and drawn into the circle. . . .

When the blood-steam clears, Alesdair’s naked, gently steaming form lay in the circle of protection, still and barely conscious.

But here. Whole.

Drained, aching, Jakken staggers into the circle of protection. Falling to his knees, he gathers up the moaning figure and hugs him close, kissing cheeks and forehead, nose and lips indiscriminately.

“What—what have you done, Jak?” Alesdair coughs, opening reddened grey eyes. “At what cost?”

Jakken silences Alesdair with an embrace just shy of cracking newly-reconstructed ribs. Alesdair returns it weakly.

“Later,” Jakken murmurs in hair as dark and unruly as his own. “For now, welcome back, big brother.”

*

The Tower of EverNight
(For the prompts: sunset, tower, and shadow.)

Ruddy sunset finds the denuded, impenetrable Tower cloaked in light and shadow.

Dusty brambles and nettles surround the foot of the Tower. Rank, straggling vegetation crawls its begrimed circumference like an attentive lover. It is not the innocent light of day’s end that creates nourishment in this weed.

A liver-colored steed paces the base of the structure, unhindered by the ebon-armored knight upon its back. Dis-eased, it snorts, eyes rolling with fear—steam rising off powerful flanks to evaporate in the chill air. The knight does nothing to gentle or restrain it, instead staring with singular focus at the Tower.

In one gloved hand is a rose so deeply encrimsoned as to appear black.

In the other hand rests a sphere made of crystallized darkness.

When the great warden of the waking world sinks below the horizon, the last of its cyan-indigo-roseate glow lingers—winking and flashing futilely, almost desperately off the knight’s helm and hauberk, greaves and gauntlet.

Dusk rides swiftly down the road of the sky to trample twilight under its black boot. And as the last natural light is stamped out, unnatural, blood-red aurora crackles up the Tower like lightning. In its wake, brambles and nettles wither. Vines writhe, turn to ash, and are blown away by a strong, sudden wind.

The steed rears, neighing frantically; the knight quells it with firm, dispassionate force as the cyclonic luminescence coalesces to form a raised portcullis and gate, as incarnadined as the Tower is benighted.

The visor of the darken helm is lifted, revealing a smile as avid and merciless as love. With an absent nudge and a murmured word, the knight urges the shuddering roan forward. . . .

The way is closed behind them with a reverberating clank like eternal doom.

The last of the sun’s radiance is extinguished.

EverNight has come.


The Sword of Namarryea
(For the prompts: This is not what it looks like.)

It is night.

The Room of Trial is empty . . . but for myself, and a child in tattered clothes. He grasps the handle of the half-drawn Sword of Namarryea.

Transfixed, I haven't time to wonder that the child is still alive—unless Called by the Sword, simply to touch it is to die—when his mesmerized gaze swings toward me. He lets go of the Sword with a guilty start.

“This is not what it looks like, m’lord!” He stammers guiltily, falling to his knees. Helplessly I am drawn forward, the Oath of Fealty immediately drawn from the very core of my being:

“I, Edmund DeValera, Prince-Regent and Lord Marshal of Namarryea, Duke of The Eastern Reaches, do swear eternal fealty and service to you, my king. Long may you defend Namarryea!” I swear reverently, holding out my hand. “How are you called, Majesty?”

The boy rubs his nose, leaving it even dirtier than before. “I . . . am called ‘Jacinthe,’ m’lord,” he—ye gods, she mumbles hesitantly.

“You must draw the Sword, Majesty,” I murmur, mind whirling at the prospect of the first queen Called in nearly a thousand years. “Both to forge the bond between you, and to accept me into your service.”

She glances longingly at the sword. “It . . . it sings . . . can you hear it?”

“Only the rightful ruler of Namarryea can hear the Song of the Sword, Majesty.” I pull her to her feet and turn her back toward the Anvil. She is already reaching out. . . .

With a clash of metal, the Sword is finally, after fifteen long years, freed. Elated, I kneel. “Queen Jacinthe.”

“Oh!” Queen Jacinthe’s eyes roll back and I scoop her up before she goes sprawling. Even unconscious, she still grasps the sword.

The bond between them will be strong.

Namarryea will be renewed.

*

The Rider
(For the prompts: black, fire, and spring.)

The battle won—the Wizard Sigred and his dragon both dead—Felida wings her way home.

When she lands—smoothly—her Rider’s battered, fire-hot lance clatters to the stones of the courtyard. The serfs and servants that’d scrambled out of their way make certain to keep well a-back.

::You need the hospice,:: Felida thinks at her exhausted Rider.

Removing his leathern helmet, he brushes dripping black hair out of his face and pats her neck fondly before sliding out of the saddle, his singed leathers creaking.

“I need a massage and a cup of mulled wine, my love. Concurrently,” he adds staggering a bit as he dutifully begins unbuckling her tack, ignoring their audience. “By the way, you were wonderful up there.”

::Only because you kept Sigred too busy to cast his spells at me.:: Felida cranes her long neck toward him. ::Hospice. Stave can remove my tack.::

“Stave soils his breeches whenever he must come near you, ‘Lida-love.” He hmphs. “That boy’s got the heart of a rabbit. Not to mention the bowel-control of a babe-in-arms.”

::And the soul of a saint, to put up with you, dearheart . . . and I think I hear the lady Selfrik’s dulcet bleats in the distance. . . .::

Her Rider shudders, glancing around as one hunted. “Well, today is a day for many horrors, it would seem.”

::There’s nothing horrific about a lady’s . . . admiration for a champion,:: Felida comments saccharinely. Her Rider blows her a kiss.

“There’s only one lady in this world whose admiration I seek,” he says with absent tenderness, before sauntering away without his customary spring and with a limp that favors his left side. Felida’s heart, as always, longs to follow him thither. “Rest you well, my lady.”

Felida lets out a brief, weary trumpet. Peasants scatter.

::And you, Osun . . . and you.::

*

The Nudnik
(For the prompt: Don't tell anyone I told you this, but. . . .)

(Nudnik: a person who is a bore or nuisance.)


“Full transparency-time?”

Harmony puts down her glass of merlot to focus on her not-quite-boyfriend. He’s making a pained face like someone just shoved a lemon-wedge in his mouth. “Um, okay, shoot.”

Marshall visibly steels himself. “Well . . . don’t tell anyone I told you this, but . . . I can’t stand the Beatles.”

“What?!”

“The Beatles. I can’t stand them. Their lyrics are simplistic, their melodies are predictable, they—“

“Okay, okay, I get it.” To say she’s shocked is an understatement. Who doesn’t like the Beatles?

“I also don’t believe in the supernatural. I don’t believe aliens have ever visited Earth, or even that they exist—though I’ll admit they’re a possibility, however unlikely they are to have evolved what humans consider sentience—“

“I take it, then, that you didn’t enjoy E.T.,” Harmony stammers sarcastically, still in shock as she believes in all those things, and more besides.

“No—I thought it was hilarious!” Marshall frowns. “Unintentionally so, but . . . oh, I generally don’t like Steven Spielberg films..”

“I see.”

Marsholl nods eagerly, obviously with a head full of steam. “Plus, I really don’t like—“

Harmony interrupts him irritably. “Is there anything you do like or believe in, Marshall?!”

Marshall is the one to blink now. “Of course there is: you,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Oh.” Harmony blushes, and a slow, pleased smile spreads across her face. “Marshall Demski, has anyone ever told you you can be remarkably sweet?”

“No.” His brow furrows. “Oh, and I hate sweets.”

Harmony sighs, but is still smiling. “Which sweets?”

“All of them.”

“Even ice cream?”

“Especially ice cream.” Marshall shrugs. “I’m also lactose intolerant, you see.”

Harmony starts laughing. “You silver-tongued devil, tell me more.”

Looking wary, but determined, Marshall hold up his hand and begins ticking off points. “Puppies,” he says quite seriously. “I mean, c’mon. Not to mention kittens. . . ."

*

The Green Fish
(For the prompts: green, fish, and cheap.)

Beth removes the cheap net and the Fish flops around the bottom of her boat. She smirks.

“Quit your dramatics; I know you can breathe.”

The Fish gives a shudder then goes limp.

“I know you’re not dead, either. But we can stay here all day until you stop playing possum. Or until I get hungry. . . .”

“Look, you, there are plenty of other fish in the lake!“ The Fish gasps out in a tiny voice.

“Oh, no. ‘Tis: ‘Catch a green fish, he’ll grant you a wish.’”

“Fish cannot grant wishes!”

“Well, fish can’t talk, either!” She leans forward and the Fish cowers. “Listen, you, I’m not going to let you go until I get. My. Wish.”

“’Catch a green fish, he’ll grant you a wish—but give him a kiss, he’ll turn into a prince!” The Fish exclaims.

“I’ve never heard that part.” Beth scowls.

“It’s true! Kiss me, and I’ll turn into a prince!”

“More likely you’ll bite my nose off!”

“Never! You’ve my princely word!” The Fish puckers his lips. “Kiss me, and you’ll see!”

“Grant my wish.”

“I cannot!”

“Then why should I help you?” The Fish makes a pitiful face, and Beth sighs. “Fine, Fish. Grant my wish and I’ll give you a kiss.”

“Give me a kiss and I’ll grant your wish.”

“A-ha! I thought you couldn’t grant wishes!”

“As a man, I can.” The Fish promises solemnly.

After a protracted stare-down, Beth sighs again. Kneeling carefully, she picks up the slippery Fish, hesitantly bringing it toward her face. . . .

“Owww!” she howls, letting go of it to clutch her bitten nose. The Fish somersaults in mid-air—tail slapping Beth in the face—then lands in the lake with a soft ploop. It disappears under murky water.

The moral of the story? Fishes never grant wishes.

*

The Job
(For the prompts: penny, hat, and mosquitoes.)

Hawkins swelters under the hot, southern sun, waving away mosquitoes with his hat and knowing he’ll still be finding bites later, for all his efforts.

It’s with irritated relief that he finally spots the ancient, black DeSoto creeping along toward him down the dusty road. By the time he hears the quiet, powerful purr of its engine, it’s already pulling up besides his own aging Buick. The DeSoto’s windows—the newest thing on the car, which still doesn’t even have seatbelts—are tinted black.

“You’re late!” Hawkins calls, putting the fedora on. Briefcase in hand, he ambles over to the DeSoto’s passenger side and lets himself in.

“But fashionably so.” Alexander Alucard’s face is dominated by silly, wrap-around sunglasses, but he regards Hawkins seriously. “You know I’d never leave you to face a Master by your lonesome.”

Hawkins grunts, opening his briefcase.

“But you’d damn sure leave me to stew in the hot-ass sun for hours.”

“Think of it as soaking up rays for both of us. I live vicariously through you, you know?”

“Bullshit. You do it outta spite.” Hawkins selects his weapons of choice: a gun that shoots silver nitrate bullets, and a silver shortsword.

“So predictable.” Alex tsks.

“Yet still alive,” Hawkins replies, a subtle dig that makes Alex pout.

For the next while, they sit in companionable silence, waiting for the sun to sink below the horizon. Till:

“Penny for your thoughts, Frank.”

Hawkins grunts again. “We really ready to do this, Alex?”

“Yep. It’ll be just like any other job: you handle the Weres, I handle the Vamps—we both tackle the Master.”

“Eh. Sounds like a plan, I guess.”

“Bet your ass, Franky.”

Alex flashes his fangs and Hawkins grimly locks and loads: outside, the sun’s finally set.

They open their respective doors.

*

Elf In Da 'Hood
(For the prompts: <i>dog, blanket,</i> and <i>tree.</i>)

“Okay, explain this again—you think I’m a what, now?” The Princess Isis of Jones leans back against the maple tree obstinately, her arms crossed. Dalen sighs.

The few remaining Gentry on Earth had warned him that mortals not only no longer believed in the Gentry—as if lack of belief makes something any less real—but no longer believed in magic.

But Dalen had simply parroted back to them what the Gentry back home had assured him: The blood will recognize its own.

Only, it hadn’t, had it?

So he repeats himself, hoping against hope that this time, she’ll feel the truth of his claims.

“You’re a princess of the Gentry. Your many-many times great-grandmother had a—dalliance with a prince of the Gentry—or Elves, as mortals call us. Creating a long line of scions carrying Elven blood. Blood that tells strongly in you, last of the prince’s descendents.” Dalen pauses in the face of her disbelief. “Your ears, my lady—“

“Are Spock-ears, look more like dog or cat ears than people ears, are elf ears—I’ve heard it all before, so what?” she dismisses, but still brushes multitudes of thin braids over her small, but definitely pointed ears.

“I speak the truth, lady,” Dalen swears gravely.

“Prove it.”

“As you command, my lady.” With a little effort, the mortal Seeming that’d blanketed him falls away, revealing green eyes with ovoid pupils, and long, pointed ears. “Will you come with me, now? Time is of the essence.”

“How—how—“ the princess stammers, her dark eyes gone wide with shock . . . before rolling back into her head.

Mission accomplished, Dalen of Selithan scoops up the princess as she sags—she’s such a tiny thing, even for a mortal—and carries her deeper into the park, to one of the last Gates to Faerie left on Earth.

*

The Great Adventure
(For the prompts, jump, birthday, and watch.)

As I watch the city bustle below me like an anthill, I remember the last thing my father said:

“Life has so much to offer the average person.” He’d mused, then smiled and winked at me. “But for the truly brave . . . death offers so much more.”

My fingers slipped from his as he took his first step on this last adventure. What was supposed to be our adventure, but at the tender age of eight, my fear of death was even stronger than my father’s persuasiveness. And he must’ve known I’d changed my mind, but being the man he was my father wasn’t about to force me where I didn’t want to go.

He fell as if in slow motion, winking at me again. I knew he’d forgiven me for chickening out. It was his last gift to me: absolution.

Then he was gone. My brilliant, charismatic father was just . . . gone.

Though I missed him greatly, I lived out my own life, chased my own dreams, had my own family.

I lived . . . before I’d decided I simply had to see what comes next.

And so my thirty-seventh and final birthday finds me where my father’s had found him: on the roof of that same aging condominium.

“For the brave, death offers so much more than this!” I tell the world, laughing. The world couldn’t care less, but I’m buoyant with excitement. I’m more likely to float than fall.

Be that as it may, I take a deep breath and step off the ledge. My body displaces air and the city sidewalk rushes up to meet me, like a long-lost friend.

My father would be so proud of me—and of his truly brave grandson, whose warm little hand clutches mine as we hurtle together toward the greatest adventure worth having.

*

On Writing
(Author’s note:
1. For the prompts: tea, lamp, and drawer.
2.According to Red Smith: "There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.")

On Writing

I turn on the lamp and sit at my desk.

Awaiting me is a cup of tea (though, considering the amount of alcohol in it, it’s technically a toddy) and it. I eye it warily. It eyes me right back.

Clearing my throat, I let my fingers hover over old, chipped keys.

At last, the hunting and pecking commences:

I turn on the lamp and sit down at my desk with a deep, resigned breath.

Awaiting me is a cup of tea (though, considering the amount of alcohol in it, it’s technically—

Glaring at the vintage typewriter I’d spent nearly five hundred bucks on—in the hopes that it’d inspire me more than my iMac had—I jump up, pacing my snug office, stopping only to take gulps of my toddy.

Finally, I sit again and force myself to type. But when I’m done, all I’ve got is:

—vintage typewriter I’d spent nearly five hundred bucks on, in the hopes that—

Damnit!

But then my fingers are moving once more. I watch words appear across the paper as if by magic:

“Finally, at my wits’ end, I open the top drawer of the desk and, without hesitation, take out the packet of disposable razorblades I’d picked up for just this eventuality. I rip the cardboard and fumble out one blade, holding it and my right wrist over the typewriter. . . .

One—two—three stinging, horizontal slashes later, my shaking fingers begin to type once more, with that same peculiar purpose. I laugh nervously as blood drips on the keys.

Could my writer’s block finally be cured. . . ?

Closing my eyes for a moment, I sigh. There’s only one way to find out.

I open the top drawer of the desk and, without hesitation, take out the packet of disposable razorblades. . . .

*

The Dare
(For the prompt: "I dare you to try it.")

“I dare you to try it.” Then Aubry amends his statement, holding the spoon to out. “No, I double-dog dare you, butch.”

“Darlin’, you know I can’t handle spicy food. . . .“

“You sure you’re from Louisiana?” Aubry rolls his eyes and leans across his kitchen counter. “It’s not that spicy, Jack. Even if it was, I have a glass of water and a piece of bread on stand-by in case your mouth catches fire.”

He pronounces it fie-uh in an approximation of my accent.

“Mock away. The answer’s still ‘no.’”

“Pwease?” Aubry makes sad-puppy eyes and holds the spoon closer. I eye the gumbo—my mama’s secret recipe, though how Aubry magicked it out of her I’ll never know; she’s refused multiple times to give it to me. “I even remembered to substitute the peanut oil for olive oil, this time!”

“Gee.” I sigh, thinking of how the last time Aubry made me a surprise dinner—normally I handle the cooking in our relationship—I’d wound up in the E.R., unable to breathe properly and covered in hives. Oddly enough, it was Aubry who lost his shit that night; I was the calm one. “That’s awful sweet of you, Aub,”

He dimples. “Truly there’s no end to my wonderousness. Now taste,” he orders, shaking the spoon a little. Some suspiciously fiery-looking gumbo slops onto his palm. “Taste, Jack.”

I shake my head. “Sorry, I can’t risk—“

“Stop being such a control freak, butch. It’s only a risk if you don’t trust me,” he murmurs, holding my gaze. And that’s what it comes down to, doesn’t it? How much I trust him.

I stare into his dark, unreadable eyes and . . . open my mouth. The spoon moves toward me.

“Here comes the choo-choo,” he sing-songs playfully. I steel myself as gumbo graces my tongue, and—

*

Osun's Dragon
(For the prompts: skirt, stick, and blink.)

Osun skirts the edge of the glade, stick clutched firmly in hand.

He’s been watching the twitching egg since sun-up. No dragon would ever, ever leave her egg unattended for ten whole candle-marks, unless. . . .

. . . unless the “rampaging” dragon that’d been vanquished by the King’s champion three days ago was the mother.

Ulrik had made much mention of the fact that his conquest was a female, therefore larger and more dangerous than a male could ever be.

Osun grimly marches into the clearing, blinking in the twilit murk. Even in its egg-pit, the egg’s as tall as Osun. It rocks lethargically, as if the being inside is giving up on ever getting out. . . .

He drops the stick and searches the glade for a good-sized rock. When he finds one, he hurries back to the agitated egg. Raising the rock high, he brings it down once—twice—and with the third blow, the egg cracks. . . .

Soon the egg is reduced to nothing more than reddish-gold shards. The dragon that’d been inside lays half-in and half-out of the egg-pit, panting and wriggling weakly. It’s the same reddish-gold as the egg had been, and easily the size of Ulrik’s massive steed.

But it’s—she’s also at her most vulnerable. The rock that’d freed her could also kill her, rendering Osun a hero, of sorts, for dispatching a future menace.

He raises the rock decisively. . . .

The baby dragon rolls onto her stomach, opening her eyes. Whirling green-gold-brown orbs regard Osun with confused innocence. She tries to stand, and flops back onto her stomach bleating helplessly.

The rock drops to the ground, forgotten as Osun steps forward, one hand held out her. She butts his palm with a blunt, hot snout, sniffing and snuffling, mewling and hiccupping.

Osun sighs.

Being a hero is overrated, anyway.

*

Welcome To Halstead
(For the prompt: "You aren't from around here, are you?")

My motorcycle broke down on the highway just outside of Halstead: population eight hundred.

After cursing it repeatedly, I’d sat down next to it, closed my eyes and tried to calm myself. Now, I’m waking up sweaty and hot even in the desert twilight. Across the road from me sits an idling pick-up, emblazoned with Eddie’s Tow And Repair.

”You ain’t from around here, are ya?” The driver calls, a wry smile quirking her thin lips.

“Not even remotely.”

The driver nods. “Break-down?”

“Yeah, I—uh. . . .“ I trail off as she gets out of her truck. She’s short and stocky, wearing coveralls, workboots, and a dusty baseball cap. She holds out an equally dusty hand with what appears to be oil in the lines of the palm. But dad raised me to never refuse the hand of a working-man—or woman.

“Edinah Barker.” Her grip is strong. “Call me Eddie.”

“Chris Chavez.” I say, but she’s already let go of my hand, and is squatting and examining the motorcycle. It doesn’t even attempt to start when she turns the key.

“Huh. It’s a shame for you your bike died ‘round these parts.” Eddie looks up at me. In the purple twilight, her eyes seem to flash a baleful sort of crimson. “It gets . . . weird here. ’Specially at night.”

I take a step back as a chill tangos its way up my spine.

Eddie nods at her truck. “Lucky for you I’m a mechanic. Unlucky for you, I don’t work for free.” She grins, revealing large, pointed teeth.

Though, I think numbly as I instinctively stumble backwards, technically they could be called fangs. My ass hits black-top, but I keep scrambling anyway. Eddie stands and saunters after me.

“Welcome to Halstead, Miss Chavez,” she says, still grinning. “Population Eight hundred . . . and one.”

*

The Dire
(For the prompts: ice, trouble and flag.)

Des kneels at the Dire’s side.

“How bad is it, GreatFather?” she murmurs urgently, taking his hand. It’s no doubt ice-cold, for all the blood he’s lost.

The Dire—oldest and strongest of the Weres—attempts a smile that’s really a teeth-filled grimace.

“Come to me, child,” he coughs, holding out his other hand to me. It’s a command, though couched in kindness. I obey.

Once at the Dire’s side, I kneel, unable to avoid the spreading pool of his blood. When I look into his golden eyes, he attempts that painful smile again. “Will you bear witness?” he asks.

“Bear witness?”

With a speed I would never have guessed his flagging body still contained, he sits up and sinks his teeth—his fangs into Des’s shoulder. I fall back on my bottom and try to scramble away, skidding and slipping in the Dire’s blood.

Des, meanwhile, looks startled, but not frightened as the Dire worries at her shoulder before flopping back to the floor, panting heavily. Des’s left shoulder is hamburger, but I can see the wound already repairing itself, unlike the Dire’s.

“Oh, GreatFather,” she says softly, her voice choked and quiet. Tears roll unheeded down her face. “You can’t—“

“But I can,” the Dire interrupts, his no longer glassy, but alert. “The line of succession is established and incontestable. I have passed my power and title to the Were known as Guinevere Desiderio, daughter of Mischa, and Alpha of the Desiderio Pack.

“Long may you defend, my daughter,” he exhales. Then the light fades from those golden eyes forever. . . .

“No!” Des’s chest heaves, and she looks at me helplessly. Uncertain what else to do, I incline my head to her. “GreatMother.”

She throws her head back, and a lonely, eerie howl issues from her mouth.

Troubled, I look away.

*

Mr. Cat-tastrophy's Routine
(For the prompts: cat, rose, and coffee.)

Mr. Cat-tastrophe’s routine starts with his Human groaning herself awake from under the weight of Mr. Cat-tastrophy on her face.

“Solade! Solade!” Mr. Cat-tastrophy’s Human burbles, sneezing and rubbing her swollen eyes. She glares blearily at Mr. Cat-tastrophy. “Whybust you sleebod by face?”

Mr. Cat-tastrophy ignores her for curling up on the other pillow to continue his interrupted rest.

Grumbling, his Human rolls out of bed, muttering about the “basochisub of owdig a cat” when one is “allergig.”

When next he wakes, Mr. Catastrophe stretches, basking in the pervasive scent of his Human, and begins his careful circuit of their home. Ending his rounds with the kitchen counter, he investigates the scents of fried food and scorched coffee, and listens with half an ear to the goings on outside:

The child that lives to the right has fallen yet again, and is wailing. To the left, the elderly Human is snipping at his roses. . . .

Disappointed—some mornings, his Human drops a piece of bacon, but this is not one of them—Mr. Cat-tastrophy eats from his food bowl then pads into the livingroom to watch the no-doubt-delicious fish swim, tail lashing slower and slower as he plans-plans-plans. . . .

When next he wakes, it’s to his Human’s voice: ”This is Becky. Leave a message.”

”Heyya, Beck, it’s me. . . .”

Mr. Cat-tastrophy’s tail is lashing again. It’s the Human male that’s been courting Mr. Cat-tastrophy’s Human. By the way his Human preens before the male comes to see her, said courting is leading indubitably to mating.

Thence to . . . children.

Thinking of the clumsy, noisy boy next door, Mr. Cat-tastrophy shudders.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he assures the fish in perfect English (although with a Catty accent). Then he’s settling in for his midday nap and planning-planning-planning.

*

Émigré
(For the prompt: I don't like this place.)

“Daddy, I don’t like this place!”

“You haven’t even given it a chance.”

“I don’t need to give it a chance.” My daughter scratches at her arm. “It smells weird and everyone talks funny!”

“They’re speaking English, love, which you’re going to have to speak if you’re going to make friends.”

“I don’t wanna speak English! It’s stupid!” She declares. “Stupid like everything in this whole stupid place! And I don’t want any friends! I wanna go home!”

“But you know we can’t. So be brave. For daddy.”

She looks sulky for a few more moments then sighs. “Alright. I can be brave.”

My heart wells with pride. Her mother, may she fly among the stars, would be so proud. . . .

Just then a tiny boy runs up to us. He’s got dreadlocks and bright, friendly eyes.

“My name’s Derek,” he announces, more to my daughter than to me. “Wanna play Legos?”

“No. Go be away from me,” she says, but uncertainly. I feel proud again. Her English is already better than mine.

The boy Derek laughs. “You talk funny.”

“Not as funny as you talk.”

Derek laughs again. “C’mon, before Kevin and Greg get the best pieces!” He grabs her hand and practically drags her off. She glances back at me questioningly and I shoo her into the classroom.

The kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Martinez, approaches me, smiling kindly. “Once they find a kindred spirit, they forget all about how scary a new place can be, don’t they, Mr. Smith?” she says. I laugh heartily.

“Yes. Certainly they do.” I say in my best English, with my best grin. It’s still odd to me to bare one’s teeth as a sign of camaraderie and pleasure, but when on Earth. . . . “And please be calling me ‘John.’ Mr. Smith is being my father.”

*

Seal-Skin
(For the prompts net, claw, and glass.)

“I was young when the fisherman caught me in his net.

“I struggled as I was first drawn out of the water, crying out for my sisters. I could see uncertainty in his dark eyes, and thinking to take advantage of his bestartlement, I shrugged off my seal-skin and clawed my hands, trying frighten him into dropping me.

“Sudden understanding dawned in his gaze, and he worked harder to drag me aboard his vessel.

“Soon, I flailed and flapped uselessly on the rough boards of the boat. He crouched and reached out to me. When I hissed at him, he grinned.

“’You are a selkie, are you not?’

“I understood Man-speech well enough to speak it. “’Yoooouu! Let gooo!’ My voice squeaked out in womanly register.

“He shook his head and laughed. ‘I think not, beautiful one. You will make me a fine wife,’ he said. And with that, he pulled out a knife. Thinking he meant to kill me after all, I cowered and scrambled back against the hull.

“But instead, he cut the net . . . and grabbed my forgotten seal-skin.

“By the time I realized his intention, my precious skin lay shredded on the floor of the boat. Weak with grieving, I let him tie my hands and settle me in the boat. Then he took the shreds of my seal-skin and tossed them over the side. . . .“

“That’s a silly story, Gramma!” Joseph laughs, puts down his glass of milk, and runs off to rejoin his friends outside. He’s a fine, strong boy of nine, and clearly growing too old for such stories as I have to tell. Even the true ones.

So I put his glass and plate in the sink . . . and I wiggle my fingers under the tap, waiting for my husband to come home.

*

The Adventure Begins III
(For the prompts clock, cloud, and compass. Continuing this story arc: The Adventure Begins  , and The Adventure Begins II   but it can be read as a standalone.

Prisons rarely have clocks. Mine is no different.

The captain is standing in my erstwhile “quarters,” watching me, waiting for an answer.

“No.” I eschew diplomacy for directness. “Captain Alexander . . . Teighan . . . will you ransom me, or let me go?”

Captain Alexander paces to the small lavatory, then back to my pallet.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Chase—or may I call you Gwennie, like old times?”

I remember the last time Teighan Alexander had called me ‘Gwennie’—chucked my chin, gifted me a small, filigreed compass—which I still carry—and told me to get better.

Hours later, Teighan was dead. They all were.

“’Gwen’ will do,” I say quietly. A moment later my bed dips with the captain’s weight; a work-roughened hand covers mine and turbulent grey eyes hold my own.

I’m reminded of storm clouds . . . of pre-dawn skies . . . of burning smoke and plummeting wreckage. I pull my hand away. “I’m conscripted by the Empire. They will pay a ransom for me!”

The captain runs a hand over that wild red hair. “Gwennie—Gwen,The Captain’s Revenge needs a navigator—“

“If crew for you, my career—everything I’ve worked for for the past ten years is over! I’ll be branded a traitor to the Empire!“

Captain Alexander sighs. “What if I told you that your precious Empire was the traitor? To its own people—more specifically to you?”

I shake my head. “I—I don’t understand.”

“Who do you think was responsible for the Talulah’s explosion? Who do you think could’ve sabotaged an airship’s fuel tanks? By the gods, Gwennie, who do you think had the power to kill your family?”

I go numb. “Lies,” I breathe.

The captain holds out the same square hand. “Truth, and I can prove it!”

I hesitate, but take the proffered hand. It grips mine firmly, then—

—the world goes black.


Liar
(For the prompts circus, switch, and sprint.)

Danny is not the little liar everyone thinks he is.

The door to his mother’s room is partially open, and from inside he hears snores. Not his mother’s, no. Those bear-grumbles are Kyle’s; under their cover, Danny slips inside, flicking the light switch.

He is not a little liar.

Halfway across the room a floorboard creaks! The bear-grumbles stop!

Quick! Danny springs forward—drives the kitchen-knife into Kyle’s throat. With one decisive stab he’s silenced that liar-voice forever. With two he’s covered in spurting blood.

By thirteen, Kyle’s neck is ground chuck.

When the twitching and gargling has stopped, Danny turns his attention to Kyle’s hands—the biggest liars. In the daytime, they’re dad-hands. But at night, after his mother’s taken one of her pills and the whole house is quiet, they’re different hands entirely.

Danny stabs at them, severing fingers from palms.

He can taste salt-copper blood on his lips. Oh, but he really wishes his mother would wake up and get him a glass of water to wash that taste away; she’d always used to bring him a glass of water at night . . . before Kyle, and the pills. . . .

Danny screws his eyes shut, trying to burn that memory out of his brain forever. When he thinks he’s done it, he sighs and sniffles.

Now’s the time to run away . . . to join the circus and become a trapeze guy. Everyone'll cheer him as he flies through the air, and no one will ever, ever call him a little liar again.

He’ll be the most famous trapeze guy there ever was. . . .

But he does none of these things. He merely sits there, blood drying on his hands and face, waiting for his mother to wake up and get him a glass of water to wash away that awful copper-taste.

*

UnderHill
(For the phrase How did I get here?)

Lying in Helix’s bed, the strange, tall human she rescued from the barrow is finally awake.

She opens her father’s battered, ancient first-aid kit and regards it critically before selecting a brown bottle with a smudged label she can’t read.

“How did I get here?” the human asks in a deep, fancy voice, like the bleeding Good Man, himself. But the Good Man wouldn’t be caught UnderHill. Not with the WorldAbove as his plaything.

UnderHill is for the Lower Gentry.

“Likely ‘twas boggan mischief,” Helix dismisses. Off the human’s blank stare, she rolls her eyes. “Boggan. Know ye not boggans?”

The man shakes his head, squinting as if he can barely understand her words. Indeed, someone with such a fine WorldAbove accent might just not.

She sighs, tends to the scrapes on his face—it’s a young, strong face surrounded by dark, curling hair—with a clean cloth.

“Be ye called, how?” she asks curiously. The human—full human, not a halfbreed, like Helix—blinks as if he can’t remember.

“If you’re asking for my name, kid, it’s, uh, Michael. Mike Rizzuto.”

“Nae! Tell me not your name, dullard!” She screeches, dropping bottle and cloth, and turning her back on him. But it’s too late. According to Faery’s laws, she’s responsible for him, now. “I spake only of how ye are called!”

“Well, I’m called Mike Rizz—uh—“ he pauses. “Um, s-since when do teenage girls run around n-naked and have w-wings?” he breathes faintly. Helix faces him again and he shrinks back from her.

“Since Faery come to Earth,” she says simply. Then: “Duh.”

Michael Mike-Rizzuto’s eyes roll back into his head for the second time in two hours. Helix sighs again, her wings still aflutter with agitation.

It’s like her Mam had always said: Faerie or human, men are all the same.

*

The Return
(For the prompts coin, letter, and lamp.)

I

Sighing, Marvin re-reads the letter one last time then folds it carefully.

He kisses it once, then places it in the envelope bearing Jeremy’s name in Marvin's barely legible cursive. The filled envelope gets placed in the center of Jeremy’s desk, on his keyboard, where he can’t help but find it.

The hardest part is turning off Jeremy's antique desk lamp. It’s too much like a metaphor for the close of their relationship, and in the end he leaves the lamp on.

As long as there’s light—life—there’s hope . . . right?

And maybe . . . maybe Jeremy will leave the lamp on, like a beacon to guide Marvin home.

Not that there’s any chance Marvin will be returning. Once called home, there’s no returning. Ever.

II

Walking down Cedar Street with a full heart and empty pockets, Marvin barely notices what had always enchanted him. The street vendors, the shops, the restaurants—the children . . . ah, so many children!

Where Marvin comes from, Children are in short supply, and treated as such: feted, cosseted, and beloved. Up to a certain age. Then they’re forced into early adulthood like hothouse blooms.

Yes, where Marvin comes from, there’s a war on and, like so many Children before him, he’s been called to Serve.

Yet all he can think about is Jeremy, and the quiet glow of a lamp left on.

III

The witching hour finds Marvin marching through the woods.

In his closed palm, the Token pulses with DarkLight like a negative sun. Marvin’s—Marbheann’s human Seeming sloughs away as he goes. His OtherSenses flare to violent life.

Yes, it’s time for Marbheann of the DarkHame to at last return hence. . . .

. . . yet one a.m. finds the Token flickering out, leaving a single denuded and useless coin, which is then dropped.

Naked, and completely mortal now Marbheann—Marvin shivers, and begins walking back the way he came.

It is time to go home.

Hopefully the lamp is still on to guide him.

*

The Adventure Begins II
(For the prompts computers, wall, and drop.)

It began with a wall of computers.

I was four, and hanging onto my sister Talulah’s skirts while our father gave us the tour of his new airship, The Bright Talulah.

My sister would nod respectfully; I, however, knew that the real sailing of an airship, even one as advanced as the Talulah, had little to do with her computers.

No, the electronics didn’t matter. Only the sky mattered . . . the position of sun, moon, and star.

At four years old, I understood this, and though I didn’t know what it was called when one had a mind that was cleverer than a wall of computers, I knew I was a born navigator.

By the age of fourteen, my dreams of being a navigator had not disappeared. But my lovely, loving sister—who’d practically been my mother since the day of my birth—and my distant, disappointed father were gone in a ball of flame that’d used to be the Talulah. . . .

Red Fever (which had rendered me unable to accompany father and Talulah on their holiday at the Faringdon Islands) laid me low for long enough that I missed the retrieval of the wreckage that had dropped from the sky . . . and the funerals. By the time I was recovered, I was also orphaned—penniless, thanks to the machinations of greedy business interests—and at loose ends.

I had no money for school, and at my tender age, no prospects for marriage . . . not that my predilections have ever lain thus.

Still weak and unsteady, I’d filled one of father’s ancient duffels with his equally antique ensign’s uniforms, a few trinkets, and one album filled to bursting with photos of Talulah and our mother.

I then said good-bye to the tall brick house on Culcifair Street, as well as my old life.

Only the sky mattered.

*

The Adventure Begins
(Written for the phrase: You'll never believe what happened next.)

I was dragged by two burly mates to the pirate captain’s quarters, wherein said Captain awaited me.

Wild, flame-red hair grabbed my immediate attention. But then I noticed the eyes, as wild as the hair, set in a deceptively ordinary face.

“Navigator Chase . . . you have no idea how many airships I’ve preyed upon in the hopes that you were on-board—” pausing, the pirate captain laughed self-deprecatingly. “But you don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Your pardon, Captain, but I don’t.” Doubt and confusion colored my words.

Another laugh. “When we knew each other, I was Ensign Alexander, and I served aboard The Bright Talulah.”

That was a name I hadn’t heard since the airship that bore it—my father’s, and so named for my older sister, his darling—went up in a ball of flame, when I was but fourteen years old.

Old enough, certainly, to remember father’s ensign, who’d had an odd habit of bringing me a trinket from every port in which the Talulah had called.

(My sister had, of course, twitted me about it, calling them courting gifts. But who would’ve courted Talulah’s awkward shadow?)

“You certainly grew up beautiful and clever, little Gwendolen” Captain Alexander said, no longer grinning. “Your father would have been proud.”

Ignoring that polite falsehood—father had never been proud of me, and now never would be—I shook my head.

“But . . . but Teigan Alexander is dead.” The pirates that held my arms suddenly let me go and I crashed to my knees. “Along with everyone else on-board the Talulah—the crew, my father, my sister—“

“Yes,” Captain Alexander said grimly, then smiled, offering me a hand up. It was calloused and strong enough to pull me to my feet with one tug. We were exactly the same height.

“But you’ll never believe what happened next. . . .”

*

The Night Rider
(For the prompts trunk, blink and smile.)

“Help you, officer?”

The officer—an older man with too-big shades and a barely visible stain on his shirt—clears his throat.

“D’ya know why I stopped you, son?” he rumbles through an impressive mustache. You contrive to look innocent, all the while thinking about the trunk, and what’s in it.

“Not a clue, officer.”

“Mm-hm. Where’re you headed to tonight?”

“Ah, out to Shirley, to visit my girlfriend.” The lie rolls smoothly from your lips.

“And how old are you, son?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

“Let’s see some ID.”

You take out your license, handing it to the cop. He scans it briefly then hands it back. You put it away, waiting for the inevitable: please step out of the car.

But instead, the officer sighs.

“Did you know you were going fifteen miles over the speed limit?”

You blink.

“Uh, no.”

“I know you’re probably in a hurry to get to Shirley and see your girl, and you probably didn’t even realize you were breaking the law.” The officer gives you a stern glance then puts his ticket book away. “I’ll let you go with a warning. Keep it under sixty-five.”

“Uh, yes, sir! Than—“ but the cop has already turned away and is walking back to his car.

You sit there after he drives off, watching his lights dwindle into the night, uncontrollable laughter bubbling to your lips.

Once at the site—deep into the dark woods, and nowhere near Shirley—you get out of your car and stroll around to the back, still snorting.

With steady hands, you open the trunk and survey the contents until you hear several sets of footsteps crunching gravel in your direction.

“’Bout time, dingus,” an irritated voice calls, and you smile.

“Shut up, birthday boy, and help me get the keg out of the trunk.”

*

Bell, Book, and Trumpet
(For the prompts bell, book and trumpet.)

The three travelers stand at the edge of the world.

“Is this it?” The youngest one demands. The eldest, and most care-worn, nods solemnly.

The youngest sighs, head bowed like a penitent. “Well. Let’s not dawdle.”

Raising a battered brass Trumpet to chapped, ashen lips, the youngest blows one long, crisp note.

From the four corners of the tired world, the winds spring up. From everywhere there come screams and cries.

A tear runs down the youngest’s face. “This didn’t have to be.”

The eldest nods again and steps forward. The world trembles with sudden, silent anticipation as the Bell, small and tarnished, is raised.

Then rung.

As the clarion note grows, the earth shudders; those cracks spread to the four cardinal directions and Earth is torn asunder.

The eldest turns. Dark sorrowing eyes shine with tears that will never spill, and that eternal gaze meets the youngest’s rubbed-red one before darting away.

“And you?”

The Book is ready: open to the exact center. Ancient characters written in blood and bound for millennia by page and by hope glow an urgent red . . . before the eldest rings the Bell again.

The binding of the book turns brittle, and cracks.

The youngest chokes back a sob: This didn’t have to be, is sighed through the mouth of the Trumpet. It sounds as a mournful-low tone that deafens.

Pages are plucked and pulled by the winds, and scattered, till even the binding is ripped apart and sent flying.

The eldest walks away, bitter and angry. The youngest stares blankly into the maelstrom, grabbing listlessly, fruitlessly at crumbling pages . . . but the Book of Life is no more.

Grinning—as is my lot—I listen to my bones rattle in the winds, and feel the dead marrow vibrate with the shaking of the Earth.

It is done.

*

Morton's Luck
(For the prompts thirteen, curse and luck.)

To this very day, Morton curses the luck of the day he met Thirteen.

Luck—a concept for which Morton has no use. But planning . . . or lack thereof. . . .

It’s this alone that is responsible for Morton’s current predicament, which involves Morton being the spectacle of the hour—sitting stiff and shell-shocked at the turn his life has taken.

“Jeez, be a mannequin, much?” Morton’s baby-faced attorney hisses a bit too loudly, taking the term public defender just a tad too literally. Sighing, Morton loosens his ramrod posture and risks a glance at Thirteen, who is no doubt basking in his fifteen minutes of fame. . . .

But, as ever, Morton’s off-the-mark about Thirteen. The young man is solemn and alert, as he has been throughout. And the fact that this one had been clearer of gaze and steadier in manner than his predecessors, his almost preternatural beauty quite aside—

“That’s him, sir.” Thirteen points in Morton’s direction with the long, motive fingers of an artist or a surgeon. “Right there.”

“Let the record show that the witness has indicated the defendant, Morton Shroud,” the D.A. drones, and Morton rolls his eyes, slumping in his chair.

“Like, don’t slouch!” Public Defender Buffy shout-whispers in aggrieved tones. She even presumes to elbow Morton in the side, the ignorant shrew!

Coupled with Thirteen’s liquid, open gaze it causes Morton to snap. Before he realizes it, he’s throttling his erstwhile attorney.

“Gaaaagh! Object! Honor!” The attorney croaks, flailing her arms and bugging her eyes. Depriving her of oxygen feels good—so good, Morton briefly considers christening her Fourteen.

But he abandons throttling her when the bailiff gets him in a sleeper-hold.

The last thing he hears as consciousness recedes is his wretched attorney gasping something about a mistrial. . . .

Thirteen’s piercing, lovely gaze follows him into darkness.

*

Sword of Frailty
(For the prompts light, trick, and horn.)

“Awaken.”

“My head is about to fall off. . . .”

“And whose fault is that?”

“You don’t put the drink in my hand, merely drive me to it.” I open my eyes, only to have them speared by fluorescent light. I swear profusely.

“Tsk-tsk.” Hers is the breathless voice of a maiden at the cusp of womanhood.

“Bail me out, or get lost!”

For minutes there’s no sound but the subsonic rush of Her power. Then:

“I’ll never leave you.”

My eyes slowly adjust. In one corner of my jail cell is a sink/toilet. In the other, all misty vapor that recedes into the grey wall, is Her. Eyes as violet-black as a drowning pool mourn me.

Every time I wake up to Her is like the first: fresh out of my own drowning pool, the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes upon was holding me, weeping her heart out.

A neat trick, that. It was only in time that I’d realized She had no heart. Only the endless frailty of a God. The need to see Her Will done.

“If I had a heart, it would have been broken long ago,” She whispers. “And I do need you. You are my intermediary. Without you, Horne, I am powerless in this world.”

After a thousand years, not even I had remembered the name I’d borne before awakening in Her chilly arms.

“Be mine, evermore.” She looks down at her hands, which are suddenly no longer empty. “Take up my Sword, again.”

I hesitate . . . but reach out. With a brush of clammy fingers She hands me the instrument of Her Will.

Then I’m alone . . . but not really. Her power and purpose fill me to brimming once more; I clutch the sword to me and it becomes a scythe.

Her Will be done.

*