Five Timelines and a Ghost

Chuck Wendig at Terrible Minds posted it was time for a sub-genre boogie. Out of a list of twenty literary sub-genres, we are to select two from a hat or other random number selection methods, and merge them together.

My random number generator gave me a Haunted House and Time Travel.

I just want to say this up front: I make no guarantee that this result is fit for human consumption. Probably NSFW as I channeled my inner cuss-monster. Mostly because I wasn't finished swearing at the random number generator.

And the only things that came to mind were the movies Ghostbusters and Timeline, and I realized I have had little exposure to either of these sub-genres. Over 400 movies stacked on my shelf and maybe three of them fit these elements. So this will either help me or hinder me. I'll let you decide which.

Anyway, we have 1500 words, which I know is 500 more than Chuck usually gives us, but I could easily have used more. I apologize for throwing you in the middle, but here's where the action is. Just go with it.



Without further ado, I give you:  Consequence and Convergence

“Get those lines in place!” Kate’s handheld radio screamed with Matthew Jenks’s voice. 

A different voice responded, “North side anchored.”

Jenks’s voice returned. “East-side?”

Hold your horses, Jenks! Kate thought, skipping a keyed reply as she foisted hurricane -rated straps through the eye of the anchor. The pulleys made things easier, but it was still a seventy-pound draw and Kate’s muscles burned through her arms and shoulders, unaccustomed to the physical labor. Of all the days to be short-staffed, equinoxes and solstices were the worst. And this vernal equinox was a stark raving bitch.

The farmhouse twisted, struggling to maintain integrity against the forces that raged war against it. A slate tile from the gabled roof stripped free, catching Kate’s cheek as it spiraled to the ground, throwing her off-balance. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” She scrambled to reclaim her grip on the straps, feeling the fire of friction as they slipped through her elk-leather gloves. 

Collier – shirtless, again – ran from the north-side of the farmhouse and slid in beside her, raking dirt in a rooster tail. Kate welcomed his solid weight on the lines. “Where the hell’s Manu?” she asked.

“Dunno. Your Danny’s working the Rift, trying to splice – Whoa! This fucker’s strong!”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she scowled.

Seizing the wild strap, he dug his heels into the berm of the anchor and leaned back, grunting from effort, the veins of his arms bulging. “Now or never, Kate!”

With the slack Collier provided, Kate maneuvered the knot with much more authority, shackling the lines to the anchor.  “All right, she’s fastened.”

Kate and Collier’s radios both crackled with Jenks’s urgent voice, “Status, Kids?”

Collier panted, clutching his knees, as Kate keyed the voice-out, “East side anchored.”

“Brady?” the radio asked. “Brady, come in! We need that south-side secured!”

Kate took a deep breath and one last tug to check the knots. Collier heaved a sigh. “Worst equinox ever,” he said, and broke into a run for the south station. Kate was fast on his heels.

The south-side straps flapped loose in the wind like writhing snakes, slamming the pulley casings into the side of the farmhouse. Kate felt her heart in her throat. Both Manu and Brady? Where the hell were they?

Collier leapt, muscled arms outstretched like a flying squirrel, and plucked the lines from the air, making it look easy. Kate dove for the anchor and snapped the locking bar into place. Collier tugged and pulled, Atlas carrying the world, to get her the lines. Without verbal cues, they repeated the routine. When the straps were anchored, Kate radioed the report.

The farmhouse still strained at the straps, but once anchored, the struggle lost most of its strength. A rushed job, the team hadn’t had much time to set things up properly, and with the turbulence of three converging timelines trying to rip the house apart, the situation was far from stable. 

Jenks stood at his computers when Kate returned to base station with Collier. Kate expected to see Manu and Brady behind the blast shield, bruised maybe, but gearing up for the sweep of the farmhouse. It was just Jenks though, with Patel on the tuning forks. Patel flashed her a glance. “You’re bleeding.”

“Damned shingle,” she said, wiping her cheek. The overlapping timelines folded and fractured, distorting visibility. Kate toggled the settings for the blast shield but saw little improvement. “You see Manu anywhere? Or Brady?” Kate asked, straining to see through the haze.

Jenks growled from his computer screen, “I think they got sucked into the house. Manu said something about a stowaway or a trapped girl before he disappeared. Running tracers now, but there’s a lot of interference.”

“No way this is just a T-3,” Collier said, tone full of skepticism. “It feels more like five timelines.”

“Check the readings yourself,” Jenks pointed at his computer screen. 

“I haven’t trusted that software’s readings since the crack-house incident in Baltimore.” Collier folded his arms, challenging. “It tell you where the epicenter is yet?”

Jenks made a face but said nothing, and typed at his keyboard so fast Kate thought the keys would catch fire. Turbulence howled around them, and Kate felt tremors starting in the earth. “Hey Patel,” she turned, “we in over our heads or what?”

“Always. Radio Belekov,” Patel chirped from his forks. “See where he is on that splice.”

Kate flicked her look of pleading deference to Collier. She wasn’t ready to talk to her husband yet. Collier shot her a knowing smile and fished his radio from its belt holster. “Danny,” he said, keying the mic, “Ravi’s asking for status.”

A minute of solid static replied. Collier changed position, divining a better signal and gaining words. “--got the splice to the minor, working the major now. Patel got a song for me yet?”

Collier spun, the question repeating in the look he gave Patel. Patel waggled a hand. “A solid almost,” Collier replied.

“Okay. I’ll be ready. Oh, tell Kate I’m sorry I’m an asshole.”

Kate snatched the radio from Collier’s hands, fueled with venom. “The term I used was ass-hat and I’m not ready to forgive you yet.”

Jenks tossed a curious look over his shoulder. “Trouble in paradise?”

Kate groaned. “Do yourself a favor. Marry the girl next-door. This long-distance, crossed-time bullshit wears thin most days.”

“The girl next door is already married.” Jenks’s computer screen lit up with a waterfall of code. “Thank you Gorgeous! Epicenter is top of the staircase.”

“It’s always the top of the staircase.” Kate handed the radio back to Collier. “Since Manu and Brady aren’t here, you and me get to go wading in the dark.”

Collier turned pink. “So many ways to take that, Kate.”

“Oh for—“ she held up her left hand, “married, remember?”

“Whose fault is that?” Teasing her sparked a light in his eyes and she hated him for it. “Oh come on, you know you left yourself open for it.”

Jenks broke up the exchange. “Do I need to remind you that Manu and Brady are probably trapped in that house?”

Collier tossed her a time-hazard, reflective suit from the prep box and she flipped him a bird. It made sense at the time. He laughed, suiting up. “I’m surrounded by ass-hats,” she muttered.

The farmhouse roared and crackled as another tremor passed beneath them. She zipped up the suit just as Patel shouted “Eureka!”

“Got a song?” Kate asked.

“All five notes.”

Collier clapped Jenks’s shoulder. “See, I told you this wasn’t a T-3.”

“Yeah, no one likes a smartass.” Jenks shrugged him off. “Watch for Manu and Brady. The tracers still haven’t located them. My guess is that they’re both too close to the epicenter of this whale to get a reading.”

Kate zipped up the suit and engaged the tracking cuff, its vibrations against her pulse both annoying and reassuring. Patel handed two pre-programmed tuners to Collier, one of them Collier passed along to her. “Lower frequencies first,” Patel reminded them, though it wasn’t necessary.

“Thanks,” Kate said, securing the tuner to her suit. She waved her cuff. “Jenks, you picking us up?” 

“Loud and clear. Take her slow and steady, but hurry it up will you?” 

Jenks was full of contradictions. Kate sighed and fell into Collier’s shadow, using him as a turbulence shield. Time screamed as they punched through the fractured folds, the history and future of the house fighting for dominance. Though he was less than a foot in front of her, Collier began to disappear in the haze. She picked up pace and gripped his belt. There was no way she was going to lose track of him.

Visibility plunged to zero as the epicenter sucked all the light from the surrounding space. Collier inched Kate forward, and she could hear the faint ripple of his echo-location sensor. They found the staircase and climbed. She felt the moment they crossed into the eye: the turbulence dissipated and visibility returned, air fled her lungs and her suit breathed for her. It was a sensation she never quite got used to. 

Collier stopped short. “Shit, you seeing this?” his whisper echoed around her.

She peered out from behind her living turbulence-shield. A specter stood suspended a foot above the landing at the edge of the stairs. “No way! The epicenter is a ghost? How is that possible?”

“It’s not. Bloody fucking scientists! Who in their right mind looks at time travel and thinks, no way that could go wrong. Let’s punch a hole through time and hang the consequences.”

“We’re not Ghostbusters, Collier. How do we fix this? And where are Manu and Brady?”

“Idiots probably thought they could un-stick Casper and ended up in the wrong time zone.”

Jenks’s voice crackled through Kate’s radio. “Patel says there’s a sixth timeline converging. You making any progress?”

She keyed up, “Engaging tuners now. Let us know when Patel cracks the last frequency. But Houston, we gotta problem.”

Okay so that's what I've got. Feel free to leave a comment if you like, or not. It's fine either way. Thank you for stopping by!

If the Princess Bride and Die Hard Had a Baby

Chuck Wendig and another Terrible Minds writing challenge. Two lists of twenty well-known books/movies/games each, two thousand words. Using a random number generator, a 20 sided die, or Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey dart game, we are charged to blend the results into a piece of fiction.

The idea being: This Story, it's like X meets Y.

Like Dirty Harry meets Harry and the Hendersons, or like Star Wars meets SpongeBob SquarePants.

My random numbers gave me:

The Princess Bride meets Die Hard.

My head just exploded. There are rocks ahead. Anybody wanna peanut?

I debated for a long time about the ethics of choosing something else, and then I debated even participating.

And then I pulled this following story out of the ass-end of my questionable ideas brain pan. Don't look too closely at the plot. I was doing good not to break into "Yippee-Kiyay" and "Inconceivable" wars in the dialogue. So. Many. Cliched. Possibilities!

Anyway, here it is, such as it is: Breaching Palace Ibarran

After six hours of daylight, the sun set, plunging the island kingdom of Belekoy into darkness. The longest night of winter was well entrenched when a wagon carrying a delivery of staples smuggled Jakome Burgoa and his brother--in--law Ximon into the Palace Ibarran. Together, Jakome and Ximon waited for the wagon driver to signal when it was clear.

A tangle of muted voices hinted at an argument. Jakome gripped the hilt of his main-gauche, prepared to bolt from the bed fighting if need be, but concern fled when the voices dissipated. After a brief moment, three measured knocks sounded against the side of the wagon bed.

The courtyard next to the kitchens was clear.

Jakome and Ximon emerged into the shadows. "Now, as soon as we're in, Alesandere, get yourself safe to the woods," Jakome whispered. “And quit altogether if danger needles you.”

He could see the scolding in her eyes, even in the dark. "I know the risk, Jakome. I will not run.” she replied, an edge in her tone. “I'll have the horses ready, I promise. Go."

While Alesandere distracted the kitchen staff, begging for help unloading the wagon. Jakome and Ximon slipped into the kitchens and through to the servants' hall unnoticed. "That was easy," Ximon said, his voice a ghost.

"It won't remain thus, I fear." Jakome squeezed his brother's shoulder. "Here's where we part ways. You go find the man who killed your father. I’ll go after Mirai."

"Godspeed my brother." Ximon paused, "Wait, we never discussed how we're even going to find them. Or once we rescue Mirai, how we're going to get out of here."

"One problem at a time. We got to get out of the servants’ wing first." Jakome peered around the corner into an adjacent hall. For the moment it was empty. As if from a distant star, the echoed memory of church bells drifted in with a draft that shifted the torch flames at their post. “Was that Vigils?”

“Aye,” Ximon replied. “That makes sense. Nine hours, then, until Lauds, and sun up.”

"Then to work. And Ximon? Try not to get yourself killed. Your sister would never forgive me."

“Likewise my brother.” They bumped fists, and parted ways.

--//--

The palace soldier had a lot of fight in him, and struggled up to the instant he died. Jakome eased the corpse into a blind corner behind a statue of Mad King Kiros, disheartened. He would have preferred the man not forced his death; if only he had instead succumbed to a black-out. He was the tenth such unfortunate guardsman, and Jakome had yet to discover where his bride Mirai or her handmaidens were being held.  Reaching another intersecting hallway, he decided a new strategy was in order and turned right instead of left.

Jakome felt the chilly air before he discovered the first of the scaffolding. Deep scars severed sections of the palace walls, and a boulder blockaded the west wing. The night bled through from the outside, where Jakome could make out the silhouette of a wheel-crane. New stone bricks lined the opening, indicating repairs were underway. Catapult damage, he thought, from the recent troubles with Basque. The Belekoy prince, forced to retreat, licked his wounds during the uneasy peace of winter. Jakome wondered if the abduction of his bride and her handmaidens was retaliation or a prelude to something else, something more sinister. Not that it mattered much. The Belekoy monarchy chose the wrong woman to ransom.

Voices flowed in the hall like waves against a coast. Jakome climbed the scaffolding, at first just to secure his cover as servants passed through, and followed the frame along the distressed wall. He couldn’t believe his fortune; the scaffolding ended in a sharp pitch and with a simple jump, and he was able to scramble up and through a hole in the wall and onto the rafters of the great hall.

Below him, a young man in gold silk sat on an ornate mahogany throne. The prince, Jakome thought, inching forward on the maze of gigantic beams that crisscrossed the ceiling. A handful of sour men sporting chains of office lingered at the dais. Acoustics funneled frantic whispers up to Jakome with the clarity of Venetian crystal.

“What does your highness hope to accomplish?” one advisor spoke with animated hands. “Capturing the helpless—“

“The women were far from helpless, Lord Bruchhorst, The one killed a man with her hairpin,” another chain of office interjected, while the prince remained silent. “And I don’t see the harm in ransoming them back to their Basque lords. Call it a bonus, really.”

Bruchhorst snorted. “A bonus, he says. Five ladies screaming, begging, pleading…and we have to feed them.”

“Amberg has the right of it. Why not use them to advantage?” a third advisor, with a Sicilian or Corsican accent, stepped forward. “Your highness, my spy tells me the women belong to a border lord, and as he has not scrambled his bannermen, it is unlikely that he is yet aware they are missing. Now, we’ve been at war with Basque for eons…what if we could divide their forces?”

The one addressed as Amberg folded is arms, “You have an idea, Maximiliano?”

“I do. If we were to plant evidence that the Holy Roman Empire was involved instead…”

Amberg snapped his fingers, “You know, that’s clever. Shifting the blame to the Spaniards should be easy enough. Basque will look to the empire, find their women dead, then declare war. In the meantime, we’ll still have the dowry chest and no one will be any the wiser.”

The prince giggled. “We love this plan. Do it. Make sure Spain is implicated.”

The advisors bowed and left. The prince rose from the throne and hummed. He danced about with an invisible partner. Jakome leveraged his weight, swinging out, and vaulted onto a set of  heavy drapes that divided the wings from the hall. Climbing down, he landed behind the dancing prince, and drew his sword.

The prince spun, dipping his pretend partner and came face to face with the dangerous point of steel, and dropped to his knees with a whimper. “Don’t hurt me!”

Jakome raised an eyebrow. “Where are the women being held?”

“They’re in the feast hall.” The prince pointed to the door behind the dais. “Through there, turn right.”

Jakome shook his head, and pushed the tip of his sword into the prince’s cheek, drawing a tiny bead of blood. “Lying to me is ill-advised.”

“N-no, I swear, on my mother’s grave. I swear.” The prince closed his eyes and folded his hands together in a white-knuckled plea.

The door behind the dais cracked open and Jakome froze until he saw who entered. “Brother?”

Ximon smiled, a hand was stuffed into a blood-soaked hole in his tunic. “Father is avenged.”

“You don’t look so good,” Jakome said.

“This? A scratch. A flesh wound.”

“And your feet?” Jakome tilted his head at the floor. Ximon’s feet were bare and bloodied. “What happened to your boots?”

Ximon groaned. “Long, embarrassing story that started with a chamber maid and ended with a broken looking glass.”

“You didn’t happen by a feast hall, did you?”

“No.”

The distinct stench of urine rankled Jakome’s sinuses. He returned his attention to the prince in time to see a damp spot growing across the inner thighs of the silken trouse. “Did I not say that lying was ill-advised?”

“I-I know.” The prince’s eyes shot open wide with fear. “You’re going to kill me. Don’t kill me. Please. I’ll give you gold, do you want gold? Rubies? Land, how about land? Peasants like land.”

Jakome leaned forward and hissed. “I want my wife back, you son-of-a-bitch.”

The prince pointed to the doors his advisors had exited through. “Through there, turn left. Third alcove down on the right. I swear!”

“You swore your last lie was truth.” Jakome thought for a moment. “Is there food? What did you serve them to eat?”

The prince seemed taken aback by the question. “Food? Of course we fed them. We’re not monsters. Pheasant and boar and these adorable little lemon cakes from Seville—“

“Thank you, your highness.” Jakome struck the prince across the temple with the pommel of his blade. The prince collapsed unmoving in a puddle of golden silk.

Ximon scoffed. “He calls us peasants and you address him ‘highness’? Why don’t you just kill him?”

“The boy just pissed himself. The coward's not worth the effort.” Jakome eased his sword back into its sheath. “Come. A feast like he described should have a fine smell.”

“Follow our noses to the ladies? The old wives always said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.”

“Rib cage,” Jakome said, losing his humor. The prince would not remain unconscious forever. They were running short of time.

--//--

The prince hadn’t lied this time.

Jakome and Ximon gave their prey little time to react. They crashed through the heavy wooden doors and made quick work of the few guards stupid enough to attack. And Amsberg and Bruchhorst drowned in their own blood. The man called Maximiliano, however, grabbed the woman nearest him and backed towards the stained glass window at the end of the chamber.

The woman he threatened was Jakome’s beautiful Mirai.

Jakome approached with caution, watching Maximiliano’s eyes for signs of intent, while Ximon moved in his peripheral into a flanking position. Maximiliano snarled, “If you wish her dead, by all means, keep moving forward.”

Mirai craned away from the knife at her throat. “I did warn them. I told them you’d come for me.”

“Always,” Jakome said, inching steadily onward.

Mirai hissed when Maximiliano’s blade drew a whisper of blood. “Never test a Sicilian, Gentlemen.”

“Never underestimate the Euskaldunak,” Jakome replied.

Ignorance glinted in Maximiliano’s eyes. “The what?”

“Basques,” Mirai translated and sank her teeth into her captor’s wrist.

Maximiliano cried out and shoved Mirai aside, all the opening Jakome needed. As Ximon threw a dagger that struck the man’s shoulder, Jakome rushed him, sending Maximiliano through the window in a shower of painted glass shards.

Jakome fetched Mirai up from the floor and embraced her. “Are you hurt? Your neck?”

“It’s not deep, I promise,” she said. “But those assholes ruined my wedding day. And I lost my favorite hairpin.”

He laughed. “I’ll get you another one. Come on, Alesandere is waiting for us with horses.” Jakome released his bride and signaled her handmaidens to gather. He turned to his brother—in—law who stood at the broken window. “Ximon?”

“Just admiring your handiwork. The Sicilian makes such a lovely corpse. All that red and blue glass glinting in the torchlight,” Ximon sighed. Church bells rang in the distance. “That would be the Lauds office. The dawn is coming.”

Impatient, Jakome waved him over. “Yes, and we still have a fight to get out of here. So let’s move, yes?”

Ximon nodded. “As you wish.”

As they left the feast hall, they paused for Ximon to steal the boots off of the dead Amberg. Jakome made a mental note to ask later about the chamber maid.

Well, that's what I had this week. Feel free to comment as you wish. If you don't want to, that's okay too. I appreciate you stopping by!

My First Link-up To Terrible Minds

So my good friend and editor has mentioned more than once that I should check out Terrible Minds, the website/blog for the man, the myth, the legend, the one and only Chuck Wendig. He's not everybody's cup of tea, but he's okay with that and he calls it how he sees it.

I like that most about him I think. In today's world, true honesty, in all its grittiness, is a rare and wonderful thing.

So as I generally take all advice from my good friend and editor, who herself is one of those "call it how you see it" people, I finally popped over to check it out. Along with some brilliant writing, thought-provoking posts that cause me to get in touch with my inner-geek (not like that folks, I mean in the good way...oh nevermind), he's got a weekly writing prompt he runs.

And I think I'm addicted.

Those of you familiar with my site may or may not know of him. (well my editor does, obviously, but my parents, well, Chuck's not your cup of tea) Also, those of you familiar with my site have already seen the following post, and you are under no obligation to re-read it.

Warning, Mom, this post is a work over of one I did for Write On Edge, one that wasn't very Mom-Friendly. I'm letting you know now so you can go iron and wait for the next scene.

And before anyone gets upset that I told my mom to go iron something, ironing is how she deals with movie stress, like when watching Die Hard or Air Force One.

This week's Terrible Minds writing prompt is about bad fathers, like Tony Soprano, and the love-hate reception from readers/fans who find that sort of character compelling. From what I've read it looks like 1000 words is the regular word-limit to Flash Fiction Fridays.



I removed my response to fit the criteria of a writing contest. I apologize for the inconvenience.

Week 5: WoE La Douleur Exquise Challenge

Write at the Merge gave us a picture of Bancroft Tower, Worcester, MA under a stormy sky, and the French expression: La Douleur Exquise (the exquisite pain).

The Exquisite Pain refers to the heart-wrenching, gut-churning, violent sickness from love for someone one cannot have, but even this is an over-simplistic definition. It's not unrequited love, it's more like Romeo and Juliet, just worse.

There's a poem by Alfred Noyes titled The Highwayman that embodies this for me. It's one of the few poems that I would say I love. The imagery is haunting and the plot is expertly woven with danger and suspense. It has inspired a couple of films, a few music orchestrations, and even sparked a few novels.

I wanted to take a minor character from the poem and write a scene from his perspective. I also took the liberty of setting the story in Colonial America. Call it...a history nerd's fan-fiction.


I offer the following in response: The Landlord's Daughter

Timothy watched Elizabeth plait her hair from the sycamore shadows of the moon-soaked yard; his vigil that of tireless nightly devotion. Her sloe-black eyes would search for him in the dark from her second-story window, and find him not. “Soon, my love,” his dreams whispered. “Soon we shall wed, then your father shall grow old and infirm, and I shall run the inn, and find another to ostler.”

He slipped deeper into the shadows as a rider approached, the hooves of his steed clattering over the cobbles at an urgent gait. Timothy had seen that popinjay several times before her window, pledging oaths and stealing promises. Fury flamed his cheeks as he was forced to witness yet another pointless exchange. “A kiss for luck, my sweetheart, I’ve another prize tonight,” the rider spoke, standing in his stirrups to reach her fingertips with an outstretched arm.

Timothy, still cloaked in darkness, leaned closer to better hear their conversation. The melodic voice of his sweet, sweet Elizabeth sang like a nightingale, but there was so much concern in her tone. What did she fear? Surely not for the life of the brigand. Surely ‘twas naught but Christian compassion that colored her words so. “The Redcoats have been by," she whispered. "I overheard an officer mention a spy working in these parts. I beg you, do not go this night.”

“That gold is desperately needed. The Continental Army will not survive the winter months without that supply.”

“Return to me,” she replied. Why does she say such things? Does she know it makes me angry? Does she know I shall have to punish her? Ah, but no, she is an innocent in this. I shall forgive her.

“I shall be back before the light of dawn. If they should press me, I'll take to the moor until I can shake them. I'll then be back by midnight. Hell cannot keep me from you.”

She loosed her braid and her black hair tumbled long and free about him. The rider nuzzled the cascade. It was all Timothy could do to keep from charging the popinjay. The blade in his boot would make quick work of the man’s neck, but her eyes did not deserve to see such terrible things.

The steed turned west with its rider, the darkness of the moor swallowing any trace of them. The brigand was gone and Elizabeth concealed once again behind protective shutters. Timothy turned to the stables and chose a patron’s mare and tack to carry him to the British outpost. You shall see, my sweet Elizabeth. He cinched the saddle tight about the mare and reached for the bridle. Once he is captured, you shall see that you have been quite the foolish, foolish girl. And there will be nothing left to keep us apart. Not the popinjay, not the inn nor your father, not even that treacherous moon.

Week Two: Write at the Merge Balloons and Nirvana Challenge

Write at the Merge was introduced last week, replacing the old Red Writing Hood format for prompts. This week we were challenged with a photo taken in Turkey of a group of hot-air balloons in the shadow of a setting sun, and the unplugged version of Nirvana's Plateau. The picture inspired my location this week, and the song lyrics made me think of a desert cemetery. Before you ask, no, I don't know why. I have no idea if that was the intent of the song-writer. I can't say I've ever really listened to Nirvana. That band wasn't on my list of "had to have".

This week I return to Ivy's campaign to rescue Mitch. We last met her at an art gallery in Washington, D.C. She's currently following leads and going on wild-goose-chases, discovering that this conspiracy cuts deeper than she ever thought possible.

I offer the following in response: A Phrygian Market

Hot-air balloons hung above the desert plateau against the Phrygian twilight, like ink-blots floating on orange vellum. Jet-lagged and out of her element, Ivy followed incomplete directions from her hotel through the park to the marketplace. Pausing in the lingering heat to catch her bearings, she compared her map to the mosque-dominated skyline. She double-backed a block and turned at the old cemetery, walking south beyond the planted dead waiting for resurrection. The marketplace appeared at the edge of a centuries-old apartment row; its banners bright as balloons against ancient masonry.

She wormed her way through the crowded bazaar booths, her lungs struggling to process the foreign air heavily laden with unfamiliar spices and body odors. Strange languages resembled nothing more than spoken gibberish to her ears. She felt like a pinball in an arcade game, jostled off shoulders and displays, alone in a sea of human kickers and slingshots.

“You like this rug? You want to buy this rug?” a monger blockaded her way with a red paisley carpet.

“No thank you,” she replied, barely registering the questions were in English. She tried to push by, but the man didn’t budge.

He forced eye contact. “You want to buy, Ivy Tanner.”

She stopped; a deathly chill gripped her soul. “You know me?”

There were large, toothless gaps in his smile. “We have mutual friends,” he whispered. “Perhaps you would prefer a green one?”

Ivy eyed him with suspicion. Every fiber in her being screamed trap. Still, she replied, “Or blue?”

He waived her inside his shop, “Yes, yes, come! I have more inside. You come pick. I give you good price.”

The world outside was locked away and she was ensnared in the stale darkness of the tiniest commercial threshold she ever crossed. “Look Pal, my embassy knows where I am. If I don’t return by-“

A humorless, inhuman laugh slithered from the shadows. “Miss Tanner, fear not. We have no interest in your death.” A shape stepped into the meager light.

Shit! Her breath caught in her lungs. The man was in the pictures she smuggled from the nightmare of Equator, the village in the shadow of Volcano Wolf of Isabela Island. “I’m leaving,” she snapped. “I’m in no mood for games.”

He gripped her arm as she turned to the door. “I want what you want, Miss Tanner.”

“What I want is to be out there and away from you. Just who are you anyway?”

“Lou Marston,” he let her go. "I believe we can help each other."

 “I don't require help, least of all from you.”

"Perhaps," he rubbed his chin, "but I know you're looking for Mitch. I happen to be as well. We could pool our efforts, Miss Tanner."

Her stomach plummeted as she assessed her situation. The door behind her represented her hope for freedom: out of reach and closed.

Write On Edge: Gallery Challenge

Red Writing Hood gave us 500 words this week and a photo of a painting displayed in a gallery setting for inspiration.

I'm rarely moved by "modern" art. I'm not saying that I haven't found some pieces fascinating or beautifully chaotic. Most often than not I'm left with the idea that I could give finger-paints to a kindergartner and get better results. Don't get me started on Picasso.

And before anyone sends me hate mail, I want to admit that I do see value to modernistic art. Bank lobbies and doctors' offices for example, have a need for these sorts of abstract pieces. It's just not my cup of tea.

I stumbled across a sculpture carved by Wendell Castle which I am told is part of the rotating display of 19th to 21st century art in the historic Renwick Gallery in Washington DC. From a distance, and indeed from any photo I have seen of the sculpture, Ghost Clock looks like a grandfather clock draped with cloth, the way furniture in abandoned buildings or vacation homes may be. But Ghost Clock, sheet and all, is carved from a huge block of mahogany.

So I've been inspired by a photo of abstract art in a round-about sort of way. I return to Ivy Tanner, a reporter with nothing left to lose and a nerve-developed desire to rescue the man who saved her life. Shameless plug: Ivy's story begins in Escape, one of the short stories that is featured in Precipice.

I offer the following in response: Ghost at the Rendezvous

Ivy re-read the note for the hundredth time. Renwick. Castle Ghost. 1pm. Come alone.

She was alone, against her better judgment.

It was 1:30pm.

Ivy was accustomed to dead ends. As a journalist, she’d dealt with more than a few “confidential informants” who weren’t exactly honest. Getting stood up was part of the job and only caused her grief when she was supposed to be on a date. She checked her watch again and sighed.

Of the art galleries under the purview of the Smithsonian, the Renwick Gallery was Ivy’s favorite, more for the architecture than for the art displays. The laylight in the Grand Salon captured her attention as it rested in the ceiling atop the rose-colored walls, as if a skylight flooding the 4300 square-foot room with the essence of a perfect day. The Ghost Clock held a similar mystique. From a distance, the unsuspecting were easily fooled by the sculpture. After waiting for her no-show, Ivy now felt she had intimate knowledge of the piece. It was nothing more than an exquisitely carved block of mahogany.

“Marvelous work,” a docent said, approaching Ivy with a warm smile. “Wendell Castle was a genius.”

“Mmm, yes, I suppose he was.” Ivy returned the smile.

The docent reacted with enthusiasm, “The folds of the sheet are so dramatic-“

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Ivy interrupted, “but I fear I may have just been stood up. I’m, well, not in much of a mood anymore.”

“Ah, I see. I’m sorry.” The docent cast her eyes downward and backed up a bit. “The piece is still lovely and haunting; I implore you not to allow your current situation to spoil that.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Did you drop that?” she directed Ivy’s attention to the base of the sculpture.

A white envelope, no bigger than a credit card, materialized on the floor; its edges embossed with a distinctive ivy pattern. Clever. Ivy was slow to react. “Yes, I think maybe I did.” She stooped to collect the envelope and turned furtive from the retreating docent, leery of revealing the contents to witnesses.

A small key dropped into her hands as she pulled a note from the ivied pocket. Frustration bubbled in her heart. Why go through this much trouble to hand me a key? Why the scavenger hunt? She unfolded the message almost afraid of what she would find.

Locker 1625 at the Capitol Hilton Spa. Please be discreet. Contents will help get Mitch home.

Ivy released the breath she held and made for the door. The was little time to waste and traffic along 17^th and K wouldn’t be easy to navigate.