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!

Ten Chapters, Terrible Minds

Back again to Chuck Wendig and his blog over at Terrible Minds. I enjoyed this week's challenge. We get the standard thousand words, but there's a catch. Those thousand words need to be divided into ten chapters.

I've been wanting to write a story for a while that includes a Kelpie. I decided this would be the challenge for a Kelpie Story. When I sat down to write this, I expected to struggle with the word count and chapter breaks the most, but I almost found it easier than to write a straight, no-chapters short story. So now I pass it on to you. How did I do?



I offer this response:  The Forest of Shadows

I.

The woods lacked the sun's warming grace. Estlyn glanced over his shoulder as a flock of sparrows flushed from the undergrowth, gripping the hilt of his dagger in readiness, and heaved a sigh when a stag emerged. Estlyn rubbed his eyes and wondered if his fears were unfounded. No sane man stepped foot in the Forest of Shadows. It was a good place to get lost, and a horrible place to die.

And he was already lost.

II.

Hedwise stepped from the carriage and stretched. “That’s far enough, m’Lady,” Ogive said. “We are on the Forest Road. There are dangers here.”

Hedwise obeyed with reluctance, peering through the undergrowth into the darkness. “I thought I saw something.”

Ogive pulled her back towards the carriage. “Please. Your father will take my head if we don’t deliver you to your wedding.”

“A small delay won’t start a war, Ogive.” Hedwise didn’t believe the tales of the Forest of Shadows, where evil thrived and twisted trees blocked out the sun. Still, with strange noises rattling on the wind, perhaps it wise not to test Fate.

III.

The throne appeared red in the window's light, a bad omen. Ayman looked to the foul-tempered king and braced for the worst.

The king paced. “I’ve a mind to try him for treason when we find him.”

“We tracked him to the Forest of Shadows, Sire.” The guard shifted his weight. “He’s as good as dead. The devil is in those woods.”

“A ghost story scares grown men from their duty to their king! You will enter those woods and you will drag my son back by his ears if need be, or I will have your heads on spikes!”

“Sire.” The guard spun about and hastened from the chamber.

Ayman genuflected. First a red throne, and now the crowned-prince running away on the day of his bride’s arrival…

IV.

Estlyn checked the water, suspicious. Although the water smelled clean, the pond’s surface failed to ripple at his touch. He struggled with his thirst but decided not to risk it.

In the center of the pond, a pale hand appeared and beckoned. Estlyn’s heart lodged in his throat.

V.

Ayman greeted the young Hedwise and her governess upon their arrival. “I’m afraid the king is engaged at present,” he apologized, “but I can answer any questions.”

“Grammercy.” Ogive made introductions. “The journey was exhausting, but uneventful.”

“You’ll want to freshen up. If you care to follow me, I’ll show you to your chambers.” Ayman bowed.

Hedwise stood fast. “I am a Countess in my own right. You will address me accordingly.”

Ayman gulped. The young countess would not be so easy to tame as the king thought. Could the day get any worse?

VI.

The hand belonged to a body clothed only in dripping water and bearing eyes that pierced Estlyn’s soul. “You disturbed my sanctuary.” She spoke in an ageless voice. “I demand the reason for your trespass. Your sacrifice will befit your sin.”

“Sacrifice?” He shivered. “Please, I meant no harm. It’s my wedding and my father—“

“I smell deceit. Betrayal. Treason.” She whispered these words and he felt the sting of them. “You have until the morrow. Mark your tribute, or I shall choose you.”

VII.

“I apologize for my son’s absence,” the king said.

Hedwise silenced her governess with a raised hand. “Your Majesty, I am still a babe to court politics, but it seems to me that a king should never apologize for another’s actions, especially if it is rare for him to apologize for actions of his own.”

A smile grew in the king’s expression. “My son could learn from your example. Your beauty, I fear, is wasted on him.”

“Where exactly would my betrothed be? Is he aware that he belittles our marriage contract?”

The king snorted. “Unlikely. He’s always been a contrary prince. My men place him in the Forest of Shadows.”

“Why would he go there?”

He rolled his eyes. “To be worthy of you.”

VIII.

The gate guards did not recognize Estlyn until he flashed his signet ring, but he didn’t blame them. If he looked as miserable as he felt…

He stumbled into the throne room, disappointed to see his bride speaking with his father. Her presence made what he had to do more difficult.

His father jumped from the throne. “You look…where have you been?”

“Majesty.” Estlyn bowed, addressing his bride. “M’Lady, my late arrival could not be helped, but I have procured a gift for you.”

His bride smiled. “A gift? From the woods?”

“A wild horse of such rare beauty, it should be yours.”

“Can I see it now?”

“It’ll be delivered on the morrow, m’Lady.”

IX.

Hedwise joined her betrothed and the king in the meadow beyond the castle gate, where a horse of rare beauty indeed drew near. The pale mare glistened as if wet. Hedwise felt the presence from the forest’s edge again.

Estlyn didn’t look at her. “Can you ride, m’Lady?”

Alarm shivered through her spine. “It is unseemly without a saddle, your Highness.”

The king stepped forward. “My son, you fool. You would give an unbroken horse to your bride?”

The prince placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “But you are the finest horse trainer in the kingdom, Father. You will train her.”

X.

Estlyn watched, nervous, as his father mounted the bareback mare. She reared and stamped and the king gripped her mane.

His bride turned from the scene. “Please say you never meant that horse for me.”

He sank to his knees. “You know what she is?”

“I do. I didn’t believe…I’m the fool.”

“My father intended to impose First Night Rights. And he is the sort of man who breaks wild horses.” Estlyn kissed her fingers, fighting tears. “I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

The kelpie broke towards the forest; the king stuck and screaming the entire way.

“The King is dead,” Hedwise kissed Estlyn’s brow. “Long live the King.”

The End

The Tamsind Affair, Terrible Minds

Chuck Wendig is a writer I love to hate, or hate to love, or however the saying goes. I don't always agree with what he says, and I rarely agree with how he says it. In spite of this, I can't help but like him.

His blog over at Terrible Minds keeps me entertained, and while I use many of his weekly writing prompts to fuel my inner-muse, I don't always post and link-up. This week though, my piece feels polished enough to share.

Warning: This is the beginning of a story, not a complete story, but the seed of it has been floating around my mind for a while. Thank you Chuck for giving me the kick it needs.

We were given 1500 words this week, along with 2 lists of must-have choices. Follow the links for the original lists. I decided to go with 1. a mysterious picture, and 2. a pair of detectives. The result is my attempt at Raymond Chandler-esque noir.

I offer the following in response:

The Tamsind Affair
Chapter 1

The door opened and in walked a pair of forever legs and dangerous eyes. Gloved hands unclasped a beaded handbag and withdrew an old photograph from its shallow confines. She didn’t bother with introductions. The picture, she snapped on my desk. “My sister is missing, Mr. Bishop,” her voice was honey. “I am prepared to pay twice your standard fees to find her and bring her home.”

It was difficult to break away from her gaze. “Please have a seat, Miss – er?”

She didn’t sit. “There’s a substantial bonus in it if she returns in three days.”

My partner leaned against his desk, eager, no doubt salivating. I couldn’t blame him. We were three months behind in rent and owed twice that to our secretary. “A photograph isn’t much of a lead, Ma’am.”

She gaze twisted and her chin followed on delay. She lashed my partner with a sharp tongue. “I was not speaking to you, Mr. Pratt. Your opinion is unsolicited and not required.”

Her attention returned to me. I sighed and inspected the scene in the photograph. It was a high class studio print, a boudoir pose popular with gals sending cheer to their soldier boys. The subject looked sixteen, maybe, but worked a pout like she was born with it. She had the same pair of dangerous eyes partially obscured by a Veronica Lake hairstyle. Strategic shadows only just protected the girl's modesty, and I felt like a peeping tom. I returned Veronica to my desk. “No dice.”

The temperature dropped and the space between us iced over. “Mr. Bishop, if you’re expecting to haggle for better terms, I assure you—“

“No, your terms are acceptable. I said ‘no dice’ to the case, not the money.” My partner twitched. I shot him a look. The last thing I needed was for him to open his stupid mouth. Max Pratt was a fair detective, but a lousy partner, often reacting to situations with the wrong brain.

She sat, flipping her fox stole across her shoulder. “Very well, three times your standard fee.”

“Hold it, Max,” I held up a hand to the charging bull. “Lady, you can make it five times my standard fee or eighteen times my standard fee. The answer is still no.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a liar.”

She flinched. Her sister’s pout graced her perfect mouth.

I had her attention now. I leaned forward. “Look, lady, I don’t trust you. Now, my partner, he doesn’t trust you either, but you’re offering us enough bread that he's itching to overlook his misgivings. But me, I'm not buying it, for any sum. I’d ask the real reason you walked through this door of all the doors in a city of private dicks, but you’re not the sort to give answers. I don’t think anyone has ever questioned you. I don’t think you’ve ever heard the word no either.”

Her cold expression had yet to melt. “So, I’m a liar and I’m spoiled. Is that all you’ve got?”

“No, but I wouldn’t want to wound your delicate ears.”

“Very well, Mr. Bishop. I will play your game. What is it I am lying to you about, I wonder? I don’t recall giving you details of any kind. Unless you believe she isn’t my sister.”

“No I see the family resemblance.” I reached for my pack of Lucky Strikes and lighter. “The lie is in the money. Your sister ain’t missing; you just don’t know where she is and she’s just not coming home. You need to someone -- maybe us, maybe your parents -- someone to believe that you love your sister. That you want her back. That you’re willing to do anything in your power to see her safe. The reality is, it really wouldn’t bother you to see her on a slab in the morgue. Am I warm?”

“Scorching.”

I paused to light a cigarette and savored the instant burn in my lungs. “That good family name you’re trying to protect isn’t helping either. It’s a big, rich, name. The sort of name that comes with well-known and very old and deep pockets. So you come to the wrong side of town, gambling that we don’t know who you are, so we can make discreet inquiries that don’t involve the police dragging their muddy boots through your rhododendrons.”

“Ah but there’s where you’ve slipped up,” she leaned forward and mocked a whisper behind her hand. “We wouldn’t dream of keeping rhododendrons.”

“Well, I am from South-Side, I wouldn’t know an orchid from an aphid.” I blew a ring of smoke towards the ceiling. Max gave me the evil eye. I could be mean, throw her to him, let him deal with the yes ma’amin’ that comes with the expensive zip code. “So, no thank you, Miss Tamsind. Since you let yourself in, I trust you can see yourself out.”

She smoldered, her ice exterior yielding to subtle cracks, “You know who I am.”

Max was impressed too: I felt the weight of his glare shift and he gaped like a codfish. “Not formally, no. I'm sure you're aware I don’t get many invitations to your kind of parties. I do, however, pay attention when Miss Brown reads the society page aloud in the mornings. Your engagement was announced last week, no the week before. And this week, a small, one-line correction to the wedding date, placing it further out. So, your fiancé Michael, Michael, something two-faced ran off with your baby sister.”

Whether I was right or not, I struck a nerve. She rose and collected the photograph. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Bishop. I will not require your services after all.”

My under-paid, overworked secretary, Miss Betty Brown exploded through the door. “Yes! Mr. Bishop will take your case. And you needn’t worry about reputations. He’s the very soul of discretion.”

They usurped me, Max and Betty. I took a long drag out of irritation while Max and Betty renegotiated terms with Miss Gayle Tamsind. Miss Tamsind was of the Smithsfield Tamsinds that perched atop North Hill in their alabaster shrines to the gods of wealth and excess. The same Smithsfield Tamsinds that settled in Smithsfield two hundred years ago and made a fortune in textiles and tobacco. Miss Tamsind’s ancestral roots may have been populated with hard-working, blue-collar farmers, but the present day branches hadn't possessed calluses since the tree was planted. Smoke ring after smoke ring wisped to the ceiling while I simmered in my own skin. Max made a mistake of course. My gut told me there was a storm coming, and that this dame was more trouble than she was worth.

“One and a half times his usual fees,” I heard Miss Tamsind say. “And you can keep the photo. Unfortunately, the studio made several copies at Delilah’s instructions.”

“Delilah?” The name rang familiar.  I put my cig out in the ashtray, the set-up becoming clear. “Max, you’re a damn fool if you take this case.”

The comment earned me three extremely toxic looks.

I ignored them. After gumshoeing for a decade, I learned a few things about human nature. Poor girls ran from home hoping to find something better. Rich girls ran from home because they can’t wait to get anything worse. And if Delilah Tamsind was the Delilah Black that checked into Ricardo’s Club for Gentlemen last week, worse was exactly what Delilah was going to find. And what that meant for Michael Two-Face, the fiancé-on-hold, I didn’t know, but I knew damn sure I didn’t want to find out. I rose and crossed the room to my coat rack to grab my hat and coat. Pushing by Betty, I called out over my shoulder, “Don’t forget to lock up.”

“Where are you going?” Betty followed me out to the closet-sized reception area. “Why are you being so beastly?”

I took her aside and whispered. “Listen Betty, Max and I are a great many things and none of them good. You're too good for us. I know we don’t deserve your loyalty. I’ll find some other way to pay you. I promise. Double even, what I owe you, but please get Max to see reason and drop this case. There’s no way this is going to play out to a happy ending.”

She folded her arms and squared off to me, her eyes narrowing behind her budget eye-wear. “This fear talking? This could open doors for us in the right society. You won't have to struggle anymore.”

I shook my head. “Gut instinct, Betty. That dame – this case, it’s trouble.”

"We need that money, Bish." Betty sighed, her chin drooping to her chest. "But all right. I’ll convince Max to drop the case.”

“Thanks, Bet.” I kissed her forehead. “Trust me. It’s for the best.”

Roll The Dice: Terrible Minds

It's Flash Fiction Friday over at Terrible Minds again. 

The rules this week were to pick two sub-genre from the list and mash them together, then roll the dice to choose two must-haves for the story. A reminder from last post, the word count for these exercises is 1k.

I chose Grimdark Fantasy and Picaresque as my sub-genres. A mysterious stranger and a mythological bird ended up being my must-haves. 

The more I fleshed this story out, the more I've decided this will be another full-length, work in progress. Thank you Chuck Wendig. I'm inspired. But, because I'm going to move forward with this story, this post may not seem as "completed" or even as "stand alone" as perhaps I would ordinarily edit to. At least, right now it feels a little more Grimdark and a little less Picaresque. 

That said, I've written 5k words today. I don't care if I can't keep my stories straight. Mom, Dad, you have dispensation not to read if you don't want. I know these genres aren't your cup of tea.


I offer the following in response:  To Capture A Phoenix

Kestrel Kinskiller loosed her breath first and then the arrow, the bowstring plucking a staccato sound like a dampened flattop-box. The hare met a quick end.

She stepped from the undergrowth, slinging her bow across her back, and careened through the drifts to fetch her prey. Kneeling, she placed a hand on the lifeless rabbit and closed her eyes. “I thank you, my brother rabbit, for your life,” she offered her prayer. “I honor your spirit, your strength, and your sacrifice.”

Something snapped behind her. Her hatchet drawn, she spun around, ready to throw and eliminate a threat. “Easy, little sister,” her brother said.

Kestrel returned her hatchet to its frog. “I could’ve killed you, Otter.”

“Why do you think I gave you warning?” he held out the equal halves of a tree branch, one in each hand. “I didn’t want an arrow up my nose.”

She picked up her prey and slipped it into her game bag. “Were you tracking me?”

He tossed the broken branch aside and crossed the clearing in crunch-less footfalls. His mastery of stealth was the envy of the whole tribe, but she found it irritating. Four summers his junior, she could compete on even ground with him in all things except for sneaking. She was quiet, but Otter was kin to a spirit. “If I was?”

He irritated her more when he played games. “Fine, Otter, don’t explain why you’re here.” She dredged through the snow, shoving passed him with a scowl.

He sighed, “All right, yes I was tracking you. There’s no need to be angry.”

She turned, withdrawing into her hood to shield her face from the biting wind. “What do you want?”

“The clan’s wondering what happened to the bride.”

“The wedding’s a while off yet,” she looked to the sun, still high atop the trees. “And our clan won’t object to the extra food for the feast.”

“You’re hoping the wedding will take place without you.”

“If only.” Kestrel’s chest tightened. “But before you lecture me on this union’s importance, you should know that I’ve already been reminded, by clansmen older than you.”

“No, little sister,” Otter held out his hand. “It’s your last chance. If you want out, I’ll help you.”

Otter never offered what he didn’t intend to follow through on. Kestrel swallowed the knot in her throat. “No, I won’t disgrace my clan.”

Otter nodded and said nothing more. The wind picked up and the scent of new snow triggered the instincts of the forest creatures to burrow deep. Kestrel knew it was time to return.

She readjusted the snowmucks on her feet and followed single-file behind her brother. She tasted it first, on the wind; burning pine and ash. Soon, her brother pointed through a break in the treetops. Dark, billowing smoke curled into the sky and threatened to blot out the sun.

“That looks like it’s coming from our longhouses.” Kestrel gasped.

“And the whole clan is there for your wedding.” Otter ran.

Kestrel kept to her brother’s heels. Outside the clan's split-log walls, a group of foreigners fought clansmen in small pockets. “They’re burning our people alive,” Otter said through clenched teeth as they caught their breath at the crest of the last hill. “They’re burning our people alive and murdering those attempting to survive.”

In a swift movement, she hugged her brother. “Die fighting or return victorious,” she recited the clan’s rally to arms.

“I’ll see you at the Great Spirit’s Council Fire.” Otter said.

He ran, his hatchet drawn in one hand and obsidian dagger in the other, straight into the fray. Kestrel drew her bow and loosed a fury of arrows, each one finding a vulnerability in an enemy to exploit. For a moment, the tide of the skirmish looked to shift against the strangers.

A club - a branch? - shattered against her temple and she plunged headfirst into the snow, her bow lobbing into a drift beyond her reach. The edges of her vision blurred and narrowed as a shadow consumed her sight. The weight of a man fell atop her and the grip of strong fingers caught her neck. Unable to pull her hatchet, she clawed and kicked as she fought for air and against the inevitable rape.

The man’s weight disappeared as a dark form collided with her rapist. Kestrel coughed and rolled from her back, blood dripping from her face. She felt for her hatchet, preparing to fend off another attacker, but she fell. Darkness swallowed her whole.

It was night when Kestrel came to. Every inch of her body ached, but her head throbbed the worst. She rolled to her side and peered through a campfire at a pair of men talking. A familiar voice reached her ears. “Easy, little sister.”

“Otter?” She pushed herself up, first to her elbow and then to her waist. “The clan…”

One of the pair merged into her brother’s form as he circle the fire to be at her side. Otter held his waterbladder to her lips. “Drink.”

She sipped and swallowed against her will. “Otter, the clan…”

His eyes confirmed what her instinct already told her. Gone. Her people were gone.

And there was a stranger at the fire.

“Who’s that?” Kestrel asked her brother as the weight of her sorrow tripled on her shoulders.

“He is the man who saved your life.”

The stranger moved into her line of sight. His strange, round eyes flashed in the firelight. His accent was void of music. “Call me Rhogar.”

“Your people attacked us.” She didn’t have the strength to respond with venom. “You spared me but killed my clan.”

Rhogar exchanged a look with Otter. “My people did not attack you. Those men were my enemy, too.”

“You look like them,” she spat. “You smell like them.”

“Kestrel,” Otter interrupted, “They were after the egg.”

Rage swelled in her heart. “They are without honor. Of what use is a phoenix to them?”

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.