Week Three and Better Prepared for Challenge

Okay, last week was rushed. This week, not as rushed.

Tami Veldura's Weekly Prompt this week is Space Themed, with a picture of a starry sky, the whole nine yards. 700 word allotment, though I cheated, coming in at 890.

I went with a Sci-Fi future piece (Tami, you might guess why sci-fi space is on my brain) New story, new characters.

Heads up on the term LINAR. It's a play on SONAR, which stands for SOund NAvagation and Ranging. In the vacuum of space however, light measurement would be more accurate and useful than sound. So. LIght NAvigation and Ranging. See me be clever?

The Art of War Among Diamonds

An alert at ET-Nav pinged. "Con-LINAR The destroyer's changing course, Skip," Decker announced.

Captain Avery turned. "New bearing?"

"Coming portside bearing two niner two."

"Speed?"

"Thirty."

"They still haven't spotted us then."

"Permission to speak, Cap?" Athens asked from her charts.

"What's up, XO."

"Shyjin class destroyers have detailed LINAR operations in this quandrant. There's no way she missed us."

The captain gave it quick consideration. "She's acting as bait then. Any other contacts, Decker?"

"Negative."

"Give me status update every two or every Ivan."

"Aye, Captain."

"They want to play, we'll play. Helmsman," the captain said, "bring us on course to two niner two. Make your speed 30."

Helmsman Boyar replied, twisting the nav-stick. "Aye Cap'n, turning two niner two. LeeHelm, increase speed by five"

The ship banked to the leeward. The coms-speaker answered, "Aye sir, increasing by five."

Helmsman Boyar twisted the navigation stick again. "Current course bearing two niner two."

"Hold her steady," replied the captain. "Keep us in her baffles."

"Aye Cap'n, holding steady at two niner two."

"Sound general quarters," the captain ordered as the ship righted. "Battlestations torpedo."

"Aye cap." Athens triggered the GQ whistle as she keyed her comslink. "This is your XO. Calling General Quarters GQ GQ GQ. All hands General Quarters. Battlestations Torpedo. Ready Weps." 

Captain Avery nodded. "now for the infernal waiting."

Athens gave a thin smile. "There's a lot of that out here in the deep."

His laugh was void of humor. "We travel light years to what, spread our civilization? We're playing the same damned wargames."

"It's why they pay us the big money, Sir," she said. After a tense beat of relative silence, she asked, "Do you remember when the stars were diamonds?"

He snorted. "Never had the pleasure, XO. Didn't see many stars in Nuevo Angeles. I enlisted to see some up close. That was a lifetime and a half ago. I'm still looking to see stars up close. You're from the Old Place, though, aren't you."

"Yes, Sir," she said, with a small measure of pride. Half the crew were farmed from the settlements, the other half from the New Water, but she was an Earther, through and through. "I was born in a nowhere town in the middle of a nowhere desert. The Milky Way is still crystal clear and full of dreams back there."

The ET-Nav desk lit up in flashing red lights. "Con-LINAR new contact bearing one one three. Alit class battleship, locked and loaded, running hot."

The captain didn't flinch. "Stay on course. Sound battlestations."

"Aye." Triggering the gong, Athens keyed the comlink. "XO calling Battlestations. All hands Battlestations."

"Prepare starboard guns, forward guns. Prepare countermeasures."

Controlled action and voices flurried through the bridge, carrying out the captain's orders. Athens keyed the comslink to relay orders to the torpedo decks. Red lights arced at the ET-Nav again. Decker shouted his update, "Our destroyer is turning, 15 degrees, make that 20 degrees starboard."

"Well, shadows don't last long in vacuums." The captain locked in his chair, triggering everyone on deck to follow suit. "On my mark, release countermeasures. Roll and punch, Tokyo drift style, to starboard at 15 degree up-angle, in 5, 4, 3, 2, mark."

The helmsman and leehelm shouted responses and their spaceship rumbled with turbulence. The captain moved on to his next batch of orders in rapid succession. "Foreward guns, auto lock and fire. Starboard guns, track for movement. Prepare weps port and aft."

Athens repeated the orders to the torpedo rooms and listened for the relay back. "Fore Weps answer hot, straight, and narrow, Sir."

Decker shouted. "Receiving fire!"

The captain swore. "Sound collision. Flare deflectors. Emergency blow."

Athens was mid-sentence on the comlink when light flooded the room and the simulation came to a grinding halt. Shocked and disappointed swearing came from everywhere at once. The captain slammed his fist against the armrest of his chair. "What the Sam Hill was that about?"

Communications Officer Ramirez rose from the ET-Coms computer. "Sir, that was an external program termination initiated by Sec-Nav. They're sending us orders."

"And? Don't keep us in suspense, Ramirez."

There was a delay as Ramirez listened to his headset. "Sec-Nav says to report to the Alamo at zero-eight-hundred hours. Congratulations on your new command, Sir. We're going to war."

The captain nodded. His shoulders heaved with his silent sigh. "Well, we can't say we're surprised. You have a few hours of liberty, but keep it simple. Embrace those you love, prepare them for the worst Report to bravo dock fifteen at zero-eight. Time to earn our pay, ladies and gentlemen. You're all dismissed."

Grumbles of anxiety and fear echoed through the sim-deck. Athens felt her heart sink into her stomach. War was what they prepared for in peacetime. Hopefully, peace was what they were preparing for in wartime. 

"Why the long face, XO?" the captain asked. "Those stars of yours looking less like diamonds?"

"Even nightmares are dreams, Captain. Just means some of the diamonds have flaws is all."

"A week ago you asked me why I insisted on you for XO?" The captain clapped her shoulder. "That's why. Your infernal optimism. If we're going to win this war,  we're all going to need your contagious hope."

Athens breathed and saluted. "Thanks Cap. I'll see you at oh-seven hundred."

Okay, that's my piece. Now you say yours. Whatchya got for me?

Week 2 of the New

Down to the wire, I have a submission for my friend Tami Veldura's weekly prompt.

It's a "Roll of the Dice" kind of thing. I've participated in a few before, over at Terrible Minds. If you don't know the drill, there are two categories and you roll the dice for a genre from column A and a trope from column B. Plus there's a picture to use as well, or not as you please, and a quote. I'm too lazy and too late to repost her criteria this week. Please use the link for the details.

And 1000 words this week.

I'm coming in at 683 and it was a difficult number to get to.

Because I'm visiting my old Puritan Scarlet Letter girl accused of witchcraft by her own cousin. It's been a while, so get caught up if you wish first.

Installment One
Installment Two
Installment Three

And now, I offer this post in response.

The Last Prayers for the Innocent

Deliverance felt hollow. For months her baby kicked, her own delightful tormentor. The memory of her false sailor was born in the dank and dark, and stripped from her cell the moment the midwife severed the cord.

No one, not the midwife, nor the jailer, no one told her if she bore a son or a daughter. That it lived she knew, hearing it cry mere moments after her last push brought it forth to the cruel world.

Her baby had protected her these long weeks, keeping her from the instruments of torture and the panicked, ludicrous questions from her judges. It was a blessing, they told her. A mercy that they had not ripped the poor innocent from her. Otherwise, a pressing, perhaps, as Old Marshal Whitehead endured. Sandwiched between boards while pound after pound of rocks squeezed the names of his accomplices from his lungs.

All they managed to take was the poor man's life. He was sixty-seven autumns and a grandfather and in her childhood, Deliverance had not known a gentler soul.

Trial by fire was suggested, but Lord Stipling said the smell of burning flesh would make his delicate new wife ill. Hanging was reserved for those who had confessed their sin, and Deliverance had no intention of lying to win an easy death. Christ, the sweet lamb of salvation, was crucified. For her sins. She could not, would not fail Him again.

What was left? she wondered. Water? She heard of trial by water, bound like a hog and tossed in a deep river, rocks tied to her waist. The demon in a witch would float, preserving her life, and a guilty verdict passed...Or was it an innocent soul would float and so when she drowned, they would bury her outside of the churchyard, needles shoved through her eyes to keep her corpse from rising from the dead.

But the question that went unanswered, that bothered her the most, was what would become of her child?

For the first time in months, she prayed for the soul of another. "Thy will be done that I shall die, so be it," she whispered against the stone. "I ask only that my child be safe all his days, that he keeps thee kind in his heart, and that some day he will forgive me for abandoning him to this cruel world. I give him to thy care."

She woke as the light of day crept through the weaknesses of her cell, her knuckles sore from praying. Childbirth had left her so fatigued that she wondered how she woke at all.

Something was amiss. The stale, mildewed stench of of her prison was laced with ash...Her heart thumped in her chest. Had they decided on fire after all? Was this the day she died?

Panic pulsed in her blood, leaving a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. She summoned the strength to rise from the floor and stagger to the bars. Her jailer cowered in the corner clutching a bible to his chest, whimpering like a kicked puppy.

"Mr. Broadshears?" Deliverance smacked the bars to gain his attention. "Mr. Broadshears!"

The terror that gripped him so acutely scalded his face, his bulbous nose crimson as one deep in his cups, spoke that he was as shackled to his fears as she was to her sins. Deliverance tried to make sense of it, but she heard screaming, the sounds of chaos, the hollering yelps of the heathen savages that populated the foresaken New World.

My baby, she thought, and she caught her jailor's fear like a fever. She had to get out, to find her child, to protect him. "Please, merciful and loving Father," she begged. "Please, if this is to be my last day, let me spend my last breath in defense of my poor baby!"

"Deliverance!" Esther's pitched voice wept through the walls.

"Esther! Cousin! Save my baby!" Deliverance staggered to the source of her only hope. "Save my baby, Esther. He's an innocent. Esther?"

She listened to the drone of terror that bled through the walls and heard nothing more from her cousin.

So that's all I got this week. Give me what'chya got!

A New Year, A New Writing Prompt:

Today I begin 2016 in earnest

For those of you who know me, that I've been neglecting my site is old news. I wish I could say that I've been so overwhelmingly busy that my little blog has had to take a back seat. That would be a lie and excuses such as those are never becoming. 

Since Write on Edge dissolved on me, I have been at a loss for a writing community that I can fit in with. Chuck Wendig's site Terrible Minds is good for inspiration on occasion, but it still feels more like the one-off as opposed to the weekly habit that I'd like to get back into. 

A discussion of my woes with a friend of mine sparked the idea for her to create such a place where once again, participants can write for the joy of writing, offer critique that is constructive and supportive, and discover authors at every level of their writing careers. The first prompt went live this week on my friend's website, so until the audience grows, it may seem a bit lonely for a while. But. This first prompt, wow, so good.

With a directive to concentrate on setting, this first week's theme is Barcelona. There is a photo and a quote, as well as basic facts of the city included in the prompt. The idea is to provide inspiration to write. Participants can use either the facts, the photo, the quote, or any combination thereof.

I chose the quote as my inspiration, 

Everyone’s got unfinished business with Barcelona.  

-Frank Lampard

and I'm taking you back two years to characters I dearly miss. This is the continuing story of Essie Dorely, recently deceased, and her new career as a reaper of souls. To get caught up or to refresh your memories, previous installments in order as follows:

Installment One

Installment Two

Installment Three

And now without further ado, I offer the following in response:

(word count 578, genre: angels/paranormal)

Ah, Paris

They gathered on the Champs-Elysees. Essie felt the winter sun grace her skin. Truly felt it warming her pores. She felt alive, more alive than when she was alive.  And Paris was far more vibrant than she remembered it being. The drowsy trees stirred in a breeze, the breeze that carried with it the perfume of baking bread, hearth fire, and geraniums damp with morning dew. 

Essie wanted to run through the streets, splashing through puddles, scattering pigeons. She wanted to climb the steps of the Sacre-Coeur and jump from a widow’s walk to see if she could fly.  But mostly, she just wanted to claim the sun. 

"Ah, Paris," Abilene said. sighing deep. Her eyes rolled skyward. "You stuffed shirts can keep your pearly gates. This city is heaven to me."

Reaper shimmered in the sunlight, a marvel of perfection, so Essie thought. A drunken butterfly landed on the sleeve of his pristine suit. He raised it to eye level, and with a wistful look, watched it fly away. "Everyone has a Paris they remember," he said. "For some, Paris is the City of Lights."

Essie sensed a history older than the city in his words. "And to you? What is your Paris?"

His eyes were kind, but round with sorrow. "There are plagues mankind suffers that never make your history books, I have the rare privilege to know them all, and Paris...well, I shan't dwell on the ugliness of the business."

"Thank your mother's golden girdle, Essie. Here is where Reaper would bore you with the inane details of that silly little revolt when Paris tore down a perfectly sound prison." Abilene hooked her arm around Essie's. "Come Sweetness, there's an adorable little lingerie boutique around the corner and it's been way too long since I was last shopping."

Essie looked to Reaper for guidance. "Wait. We can shop?"

He smiled. "Time is of little consequence. You may do as you wish, after your training." 

Abilene stuck out her tongue. "Killjoy. I've been a very good girl you know. I haven't corrupted anyone in hours. Can't you let me have this small, insignificant pleasure--"

Reaper shook his head. "I know better than to turn you loose with my new associate before her training is complete."

Abilene mocked a whisper behind her hand, her breath hot and dry like drifting ash against Essie's hair. "Don't mind Reaper. He's still sore about Barcelona."

"Why? What happened in Barcelona?" Essie asked, searching for details in Reaper's expression. She resolved never to play a hand of poker against him. He had no tells.

"His last apprentice wasn't Reaper material," Abilene said, "at least for your team."

Reaper cocked his head, calm and cool as if molded from marble by Michelangelo's own hands. "Now Miss Fortesque, a little hiccup in the midst of training is to be expected, especially in the presence of one so enchantingly formidable."

"Aw, Reaper, you flatter me." The air around her charged with a hint of brimstone and her voice doubled, as if possessed by another, sending a shiver of fear through Essie's spine. "I won that day, Reaper. Poor David's business went unfinished."

He bowed with a slight concession, though there was a victorious glint in his eyes. "Yes, well...Everyone has unfinished business in Barcelona, don't they, Miss Fortesque? How many centuries are left on your sentence?"

She hissed and the brimstone dissipated. "Fine. Let's get this over with before you ruin Paris, too."

So that's this week's installment. Give me what'chya got!

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!

Touched by the Gods

Chuck Wendig at Terrible Minds a week last Friday asked for opening sentences, the intent of which was to provide the prompt for this week's challenge.

We are to pick someone else's sentence contribution, and turn it into a story. The good news is Chuck gives us 2k words this week instead of his standard 1k. The bad news?

There are over 400 opening sentences to choose from.

Quite the challenge. But since I donated an opening sentence last week, I feel obliged to provide a story this week.

So I chose the following, a donation from Susan Adsett: They said everything went right the day his mother died.

And after binge watching episodes to get caught up on Vikings from the History Channel, I could not help but use the show for additional inspiration.


So without further ado, I give you: Touched by the Gods

"They said everything went right the day his mother died." Earl Hugi pointed to a red-headed youth splitting logs into spears for the repair of the village’s fortifications. "As if her death was a good omen."

Ricci raised a hand to shield her eyes from the summer sun, "That is a cruel thing to say."

The earl cracked a half-smile. "Oh they never say it to his face. That lad has been a force to be reckoned with since he kicked free of his mother's womb. During his eighth summer, he killed the man who butchered his brother. With his bare hands, they say."

The red-head dripped with sweat, but he seemed focused, driven. The stack of logs at his feet dwindled at a quick and steady pace. "You speak of what they have said. But have you seen him fight, Uncle?"

He nodded. "He may not have the stature, but the lad's part bear. His hide is unmarred not because he runs from a fight, but because nothing can touch him."

"Why do they never take him raiding, I wonder?"

Her uncle shrugged. "The men grumble that he does not play well with others. Possibly they just feared his mother's curse." 

She turned and fetched up her water pitcher. "The man looks thirsty, does he not?"

"His name is Vegard," she heard Hugi say as she climbed around the moat, "and you're welcome." 

The mud sucked at her feet as she crossed the field to the lumber stand where Vegard worked. Ricci circled around him until she made eye-contact. "Water?"

His storm-colored eyes measured her. He tacked his axe into the log, a makeshift frog to free his hands, and slipped his drinking horn from his belt. "Thank you."

She poured a ration into his horn. "My name is Ricci."

"I know who you are. Princess." He cocked his head towards her uncle. "You and the king’s brother have been watching me. Am I a concern or a curiosity?"

"Perhaps you are both." She tapped her fingers against the pitcher she held, debating. "If you know me, do you know my intent?"

He gulped from his horn and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "The villagers say you are to make the pilgrimage north, to pray at the shrine and offer sacrifices to the gods."

"I am."

"Dangerous, this trip," he said.

"It is."

He finished his horn's portion and secured the vessel back to his belt, waving off her second offer. "So why do you watch me?"

"I am not defenseless, but undertaking such a journey...It is wiser to have an escort, someone to help get me there and back." She chewed on her lip, hoping.

He removed his axe from the stump and resumed his work, splintering a plane from the tip of the log with ease. "Does not your father have warriors?"

"They are raiding still."

"And your betrothed?" His look was challenging, daring.

"Yes. Yes Lunt has warriors."

He hoisted another log to position with a grunt. "Well?"

"I do not trust him or his men," she said. 

"A dilema, that." He settled in with a rhythm to both his breathing and his axe strokes, sharpening the log into a dangerous point. He spoke words between breaths like one reciting an edda. "What has this to do with me, I wonder? Why is it you watch Vegard the Cursed, hmm? What is it you think I shall do for you?"

"Will you go with me?"

"No."

His refusal stung. She stifled a sigh. "Then I am sorry I disturbed you. May Odin be pleased with all your victories."

She walked some paces away before she heard the axe sink into the stump again. "Wait, Princess."

She turned. He mopped sweat from his brow and sauntered toward her. She held her ground, even as he stopped within inches of her, his eyes boring into her soul. "What?" she asked, unflinching.

He said nothing, but reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear, exposing her deformity and her reason for seeking the gods’ favor. She tried to turn away, but he gripped her chin and twisted it to the light. At the edge of her vision she could see his stormy eyes inspecting the mark on her cheek, where the cruel hand of Fate had touched her. There was something soft in his expression. Understanding? Or maybe pity? Did he pity her? "My advice, Princess?” he said. “Do not spurn the gift the gods gave you."

"You think this scar a gift? A blessing?" Her gut simmered with anger.

"I do, and yet you hide it behind hair."

"It is ugly."

"It is different."

"Our people look upon me with dread and fear. My father is all too happy to rid himself of his ugly daughter. So I am to wed Lunt, and he shall bring me to his mead-hall where I shall have no father and no friend." She blinked her tears back. She would not cry. "I will go to ask Freya for protection and hope she takes pity on me."

"And I say let them fear you if that is their only ability." He let go of her chin and took a step back. "It is not so bad to be cursed. There’s power in that. Embrace it and they can’t hurt you.”

Water splashed from her pitcher as she pulled her hair back over her scar. "I thank you for your advice," she said and turned away, tears scalding her cheeks.

Her uncle joined her as she approached his longhouse. "He refused?"

"He did. But I don't need him. I don't need anyone. I can make the journey fine on my own."

"Wait, Ricci," he grabbed her arm. "Just wait. Your father should be back soon. The raids will have put him in a better mood. Let me speak with him again. He is not an overly cruel man. He will listen to reason."

"It could still be several days before his homecoming, and yet several days more before his final decision is proclaimed. If I want to make it there and back before the first snows of winter fall..."

"Please, Ricci."

She shook her head. He meant well, but he could not protect her forever. "My betrothed made it clear that he is disappointed with my face. I have no choice if indeed my father insists on this marriage. Look, they have the grain stores and we have the warriors. It is a good match withal, good for our people. The gods have to intervene. They have to.”

He frowned, sorrow lining his face. “In my experience, the gods don’t have to do anything.”

A commotion broke out behind them. Ricci wiped her tears away and took a breath before turning. A crowd had already formed a line and blocked her view. But above a wave of cries and shouts, she heard Lunt call someone to combat by blood right.

“That can’t be good,” Hugi said, nudging Ricci’s elbow. “Come, I am the law while your father is away.”

Ricci set her pitcher down and jogged after her uncle to the circle where they clawed their way through to the middle. There, Lunt hurled insults with puffed chest and wild arms at the red-headed Vegard, who stood steadfast and silent at his lumber stand. “I will not allow such an insult from a Leiding to go unanswered” Lunt held a hand out and asked his shield-brothers for a sword. “I shall teach this one the consequence of seducing another man’s wife.”

“I think he’s talking about you, Ricci,” Hugi whispered before stepping into the ring. “I am the earl and I am the king’s voice while he is absent. You will tell me your grievance and I will tell you what action you can have as retribution.”

“Only moments ago, I caught this man touching my bride, your own niece, as if he had liberty to do so.” Lunt made a show of testing the balance of his sword, dancing it between his hands.

“The princess is not your bride. Not yet.” Hugi twisted about, addressing those gathered. “It is true our king intends for his daughter Ricci to wive this man. The bond will unite two communities and make them stronger. But, it is not yet official and such a union cannot and will not be held in the king’s absence.”

“That man's intent was to despoil my property before I receive her,” Lunt growled. "I will have justice."

Ricci caught up, shaking her head free of confusion. “I assure you, my husband, my future, Vegard has done nothing—“

Her intended interrupted, “You are fortunate that I will still champion you. That mark on your face will earn you no other suitor as fine as me.”

“I do not need your protection, Sir,” Ricci shouted, unable to swallow her anger any longer. “I am a shield-maid in my own right and--”

“Oh shut up! All of you,” Vegard broke his silence and stepped forward, still unarmed. “If this man is eager to die, let’s just get on with it.”

Hugi shook his head. “Vegard, my word—“

“I said shut it. Let the bastard spill my blood if he thinks he can.” Vegard spit. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t waste my time on his ilk, but I haven’t killed anyone since the quarter moon, so why not?”

Before either Ricci or Hugi could protest further, Lunt, a great beast of a man, lunged toward Vegard like a bear at a hound, his sword raised for a swipe down across the shoulder blade. Unarmed Vegard stepped forward and twisted, wrenching away Lunt’s blade with his right hand while his left elbow struck Lunt’s nose. The sound of breaking bone resonated and Lunt pitched to his knees. Vegard plunged the sword down into Lunt’s neck, completely severing the spinal cord.

Lunt was dead; his body a sheath to his own blade, the hilt jutting out atop blood--soaked shoulders. Vegard nodded and took his axe up at his lumber stand, 

The people dispersed. Lunt’s shield-brothers glowered at the red-headed Leiding, but made no additional challenge as they collected their brother’s corpse. Hugi looked bemused. “Well. That’s one solution, I suppose.”

“Provided Lunt’s cheiftan does not retaliate.” Ricci watched Vegard for a time considering their conversation and the advice he gave. With dexterous fingers, she plaited the hair she once hid behind. 

“When Father returns, Vegard will want for nothing.”

“My brother will not like it.”

“He will have no choice. You and I will show him he has no choice.”

“And how exactly do you plan on convincing him without getting us both executed? It was a good union for our people. Our warriors. Their grain stores.”

Ricci smiled, no longer burdened by Fate. “It is a simple matter, Uncle. We appeal to Father’s blood lust. We have warriors. We will have their stores.”

“You speak of conquest.” Hugi chuckled. “My brother will wonder why he did not think of that in the first place. And your pilgrimage?”

“It is no longer necessary. I have already been touched by the gods.” 

So that's what I got this week. Feel free to leave comments or constructive criticism if you would like. I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

And She Sang the Marseillaise

Chuck Wendig over at Terrible Minds challenged us to write a 100 word flash fiction this week. Actually, he double-dog-dared us.

How could I refuse?

Here you go!


And She Sang the Marseillaise

Sunshine spilled into the courtyard, forcing the last vestiges of winter from the prison. Elaine raised her chin to the light, embracing the day. Tyranny could not break her, and her mortal coil would not keep her. She faced her firing squad and smiled. How could she not be happy on so glorious a day?

She drew a breath and sang La Marseillaise, her last act of defiance. “Amor sacre de la Patrie –“

The Vichy officer drew his saber. “—Bereit! –“

“—Liberte. Liberte cherie –“

“—Richten! --”

“—Combats avec tes defense--“


“—Schiessen!”



So feel free to comment if you like. Thanks for stopping by!

Come the Storm (WoE week 21)

Write at the Merge challenge this week is themed with Abandonment.

First the quote:

"Go off to the house of thy friend, for weeds choke the unused path." Ralph Waldo Emerson

and now the photo:

photo by Liam Andrew Cura courtesy Unsplash

Now, this scene is going to be weird. I wrote a short scene some time ago for a WoE prompt (week 20 of 2013) starring new characters: Sofie and Tiko. That scene to me felt like something post-apocalyptic but I didn't give it much thought until this prompt. I promise you, there is a ton of backstory for this scene, but it won't fit in 500 words. Well, to be honest, I'm a tad over that because I didn't want to chop anything out.

If I haven't completely befuddled you yet, read on. But. Since I've only written about Sofie and Tiko once before, and since it doesn't explain anything, I'll give you the Cliff Notes version.

Sofie and Tiko are on their way to Amarillo. (previous installment) Sofie's father, at some point in the past, released something horrible into the world and he died. (not included in previous installment)

I offer the following in response: Come the Storm

Turbulent clouds choked the sickly-green sky. Sofie shivered despite the heat, remembering how the sirens echoed through her hometown under such a canopy. The hairs on her arms and neck stretched in the charged air acknowledging the power in the brewing storm. She stepped up the pace in her hunt for shelter, moving through the derelict businesses of Downtown McCormick.

Each building was branded with the FEMA search and rescue code, though the orange paint was starting to fade after…had it really been fifteen years? Sofie paused to read the symbols on a condominium complex: 13/5/76, TX, 25 DOA, NE. Every possible entrance, windows included, was boarded up.

“Find one?” Sofie barely heard Tiko over the wind.

“No,” she shouted back and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Dead-on-arrival. No entry.”

“What?”

Sofie drew her finger across her throat – her own perverted sign language – and moved on to the next building, and then the next, and the next, trailing orange x-boxes and DOAs in her wake.

“Sofie!”

She turned. Tiko formed a W with his fingers and tapped his chin before pointing to a crumbling cement structure on his side of the street. Sofie ran best she could through the driving wind, light-headed with joy as she read the symbol for herself: 13/5/76, TX, 0-0, F/W. The Texas Home Guard finally identified an unoccupied building with both food and water.

Sofie giggled. Even if after 15 years, the food and water was gone, it was still a building unscarred by death. It meant shelter for the night and with any luck, a functioning storm-cellar. Tiko helped her navigate through the hole in the chain-link fence and over the rubble of the building’s crumbling exterior. With a little effort, they pried the boards off a window cavity and climbed inside.

Tiko turned his flashlight on. “Office building, maybe? Condemned long before the plague hit, I think.”

Sofie crossed through the amber light and peered through the blackened solar window at the other end of the hall. “There’s a courtyard. And there’s ivy or moss or something climbing up the sides.”

“Woot! Green means water source. Now we can weather the storm.”

They found the lobby. Exposed concrete floors told the story of missing carpet, but Sofie sighed with relief. She preferred cold seeping through her sleeping bag to bugs infesting her slumber. As she unrolled her pack,  Tiko pulled out his salvage bag and began preparations for a salad of dandelions and wild onions, the fruits of their many stops along the abandoned roadway.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done without you, Tiko, honestly.” She averted her gaze from shame. “People try to avoid me, or hurt me, because of what my father did.”

“People are jackasses. You are not your father. You don’t know a virus from a volleyball.” Tiko selected a fungus from their salvage salad and chucked it across the room. “Or a mushroom from a toadstool, apparently.”

“They’ll never forgive him, will they.” The words tasted bitter across her tongue. For all his sins against mankind, Dmitri Kerov was still her father.

“No.” Tiko shook his head. “They never will. But I hope I can. Someday. When I can exchange my anger for peace.”

Some of the WoE crowd mentioned during the assessment that they aren't always sure when it's okay to leave criticism. I'll try to remember to be a better citizen and put a note at the end of my responses to the prompt, but if I don't, comments and constructive critiques are ALWAYS welcome here. Okay? Okay. so, let me have it. Give me what you've got. I can take it.

Fading Luxury (WoE week 20)

After a brief hiatus, Write at the Merge is back again and so am I! With 500 or fewer words, we are challenged to create a story or part of a story that explores either or both of the provided topics. First: a quote:

"Are you really sure that a floor cannot also be a ceiling?" M.C. Escher

and then the photo:

photo by Keith Misner courtesy Unsplash

I love wood floors of all varieties. Each plank has a character all its own, perhaps a memory of the tree from which it is hewed. So that's the aspect of the challenge that I've decided to focus on this week.

Now, I want to return to characters I introduced here, although I will need to warn you there is a giant chunk missing from last time we saw them. Patience is still on the path to get her sister back, but this scene comes after her time with the Natives from the last scene. Jeb Grayson is preparing for a showdown against the Lassiers.

If you're new to the story line, and you would like to start at the beginning, follow the Label: Patience.


I offer the following in response: A Fading Luxury

Patience sucked a breath of private pleasure as her feet, unhindered by house-shoes, connected with the wooden floor. She couldn’t remember when last she walked barefoot across planks polished to a shine. Her trials took her all over the wild and uncivilized territories to rescue her sister, and Boston, once a part of her very blood, seemed a distant memory.

A wooden floor, creaking beneath her weight, was pure luxury.  She appreciated it even more than she did her cavalry hosts stationed at Fort Atherton.

A light rap sounded at the door, followed by Jeb’s graveled voice. “Boston, you awake, girl?”

Patience reached for her dressing gown and opened the door just enough to converse through.  “Mr. Grayson, you’re early. I am not yet presentable.”

He averted his eyes and removed the hat she had come to believe was permanently affixed to his head. Jeb appeared nervous, anxious, coaxing concern from the pit of her heart. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this and I’ve never been one to dance about a subject. I came to tell you goodbye.”

His words stung. She tasted bile in her throat and pulled the door inward. “Goodbye? I don’t understand. Where are you going?”

He ran his fingers around the brim of his hat. “Look, I promised to help you git yer sister back, but where we’ve gotta go next…where I gotta go and what I gotta do…a lady like yerself shouldn’t be any part of.”

His tone was so earnest. Panic seized her soul. “Don’t be absurd, Mr. Grayson. I’m coming with you.”

“Now the captain said yer welcome to stay here, or there’s a stage arrivin’ tomorrow that could take you home.”

“No, I can’t go. Not without Charity.”

Her protests ignored, Jeb continued. “Now if I succeed, Miss Charity and I will be back before long.”

“If you succeed. If?” Patience flung the door wide on its hinges and gripped her dressing gown tightly about her shoulders. “What do you mean if?”

“Whatjya think I meant?” he barked, fire flashing in his eyes. He took a breath and his tone softened. “Look Boston, I told you a hunnard times the Lassiers ain’t for messin' with. I kick that hornet nest and there’s a very real chance that the devil’ll be there to collect what I owe him.”

“I can help—“

“I don’t doubt that. I’ve seen you shoot. But we’ll be outnumbered thirty to one and there’s no use in gitting us both shot full of holes, or worse.” He finally met her gaze. “They take you, like they took yer sister? No. This is where we part ways. You stay safe, Boston.”

Jeb turned, leaving her alone at the doorway. “How could I ever be safe without you?” Patience whispered as he retreated, his silhouette dark against the rising sun. She held her breath until he cast a long look back from the fort gates. In one fearful beat, her porcelain heart shattered.

Some of the WoE crowd mentioned during the assessment that they aren't always sure when it's okay to leave criticism. I'll try to remember to be a better citizen and put a note at the end of my responses to the prompt, but if I don't, comments and constructive critiques are ALWAYS welcome here. Okay? Okay. so, let me have it. Give me what you've got. I can take it.