Feline Fine

The space station Gate Solution Heart had three ship’s cats, genetically modified creatures with short, tight hair that rarely shed, prehensile tails, iron stomachs, and the ability to maneuver in zero-gravity. The bloody-minded predatory instinct they’d inherited was unchanged, all the human crew swore, which other sentients took with their species’ equivalent of a handful of salt.

Crew Ali Elliott, originally from England, had engaged in that argument a few times himself. He hadn’t ever won, but the memories–and faint scars on his right hand–from a particularly vicious moggy from his childhood, a tabby-striped tiny terror his mother had doted on named Miss Kitty–kept him trying.

The ship’s cats–Uncle, Story, and Hall–at least, had been bred and trained to not attack the crew, instead hunting and killing the various small vermin that snuck onto the station despite the many protocols designed to prevent such infestations.

As Ali climbed–and then descended when he crossed a change in center of gravity–a ladder, he saw his favorite of the cats, Uncle, a marmalade tabby with extravagant swirls and piercing purple eyes, engaged in hunting a greenish bug.

Her tail thrashed from side to side as her butt ratcheted upwards bit by bit, and then the feline launched, her trajectory perfectly intersecting the bug’s hops. Her jaws snapped shut with a crackling crunch.

“Good job, girl,” Ali said, recognizing the greenish bug as a kind that ate wire coatings. 

Uncle merped at him, still chomping merrily away.

Ali left her to her snack, heading on to the docking bay where he’d been summoned for repairs. Ship in distress, he’d been told. 

That was underselling the problem. 

The ship’s crew had hauled out several large pieces of machinery, leaving gaping holes in their transport’s innards, and were working frantically on repairs. Crustacean-like pincers clacked at each other in terse communication, in between yanking at smoking wires and tossing screws and bolts to the floor.

Ali hurried forward. “What’s wrong? How can I help?”

One of the crew with several gems imbedded in their carapace turned towards him, clacking.

His translator offered. “The situation is on control. We will to [untranslatable] and–”

“Excuse me, but this doesn’t look under control,” Ali interrupted. “I need you–”

Sparks cascaded from an open portion of the ship, and with a soft whump, flames sprang up to dance at the edges of the hole.

Flames on a space station were almost as bad as it got. Alarms blared, lights flashed, and machinery whirred.

Story, a gray and white tom, had been watching the chaos from atop a nearby crate, and he leapt down, stalking towards the ship.

“Dang it, cat.” Ali chased after the animal, who raced nimbly ahead, pouncing on a furry multi-legged creature about the size of Ali’s boot, which had just emerged from a different, not currently ablaze, gap.

The ship’s cat swatted at the brown-and-yellow vermin, leapt, and landed front feet first on its back, with a snap audible above the hubbub.

Story sniffed the creature, gagged, and raked at the floor with his front feet, trying to bury the bug.

Anything a ship’s cat wouldn’t eat was definitely toxic to most life forms. Best to get rid of the remains.

Despite the damage dealt to it, the rat-bug twitched, then twitched again, the second movement purposeful.

Not as dead as Ali had hoped. 

Getting his shoe under the repulsive thing, he scooped the vermin on top of the reinforced toe, then with a flick, he threw it into the towering blaze.

Burning biomat already smelled unpleasant, but the vermin released a stink so foul Ali’s air filters triggered automatically. But at least the creature withered and curled up, so Ali watched a moment to be sure it was dead, then went to see what was taking the fire suppression team so long.

As he passed Story, he scratched the cat on the head. “Well done. We did *not* want that on the station.”

Man, go!

This is about a real person, who definitely makes interesting food choices.

She eats mangoes

(She’s allergic to mangoes) Concern leads

to a shrug

and a barbed wire smile

She eats mangoes

sweet temptation that bleeds

and burns–unafraid

not just flirting a while

but danger’s wife

She eats mangoes

despite the risks–because life

often threatens, not feeds

the soul

Hilltop Rehabilitation Center

Steve stood up on the pedals, leaning forward, out of breath as he puffed his way up the steep hill to the rehabilitation center. His bike was an older model, without electric assist, and he was counting down the days until he could afford a replacement.

The last hill was brutal. His calves burned, his back itched from sweat sliding down it, and the scent of sun-baked asphalt singed his nose.

And then he was finally there, at the brightly-colored building partly carved into the side of the hill, the rest perched on top of it, surrounded by an undulating field of grass.

Steve swung off his bike, and rolled towards the bike rack, sliding his heavy-duty cable through both wheels and the frame before clicking the lock shut. He dabbed the worst of his perspiration off his face as he strode inside, where the welcome blast of air conditioning gripped him in its chilly embrace.

“Hey, Steve!” Brianna beamed happily from the front desk, a sprawl of half-completed apparatus spread across the surface, taking up the space meant for a visitor sign in log, and some cheerfully informative signs about the mission.

“Hey, Bri. Far be it for me to dictate what you do in your work hours, but should you be doing this right now?” He waved at the pieces, which resembled some kind of torture device.

“It’s for work, silly. It’s a new brace for Noodle.”

Steve winced. “Another one?”

“Fifth time’s the charm! As soon as I get it assembled, you can go put it on him!”

“Right. Great. I’m going to go… check on the flock,” Steve beat a hasty retreat.

Yes, Noodle needed a brace to heal properly. But Noodle didn’t agree with that requirement, and expressed that opinion vehemently, with tooth, claw, and lashing tail.

Back in the hot summer air, slightly mitigated by the shades stretched over the wire netting above his head, Steve shaded his eyes with his hand and peered out.

Tofu lay in her usual spot by the fence, sprawled belly up, legs splayed, doing her daily remarkable impression of a corpse.

If you got close enough, you could hear her faint, whistling snore, but people passing by who called in, panicked, never got that close.

Pancake perched on top of one of the wooden poles, watching intently. 

Steve whistled at him. “Hey, Cake. You enjoying the view?”

Pancake chirped back, spreading his brown-gold wings, the sun shining through the membrane, except for the dark patch, a repair from the injury that had brought the dragon here.

Unfortunately, he could only glide now, so Pancake was a permanent resident. It had taken Steve five weeks, endless treats, and a plethora of painful scratches to convince Pancake that human shoulders weren’t a good landing pad to glide to.

Dragons weren’t the quickest learners, but they could be taught. Even Noodle, though the dragon, a young one not quite yet fully mature, was the meanest Steve had ever dealt with.

He hoped the fifth brace would help the dragon heal, and leave the refuge, so he could be someone else’s problem. That’d be a good day.

Meddling Kid

This prompt was a list of randomly generated words–use one, some, or all. I managed all.

“What are you up to, you old tin can?” Roger shouted up the stairs.

“I can assure you, sir, that I am crafted from the latest in lightweight alloys,” the robot said, descending the staircase in quick, even steps, laundry basket in its hands. The old treads didn’t even creak under its gleaming feet, like they did when Roger cautiously climbed, gripping the rail so tightly his hands ached.

“It’s a figure of speech. Thought you were supposed to be smart,” Roger complained.

“I have a large database and fast processing speed, sir, but intelligence is measured on many scales. And to answer your question, I was cleaning, as my schedule suggested.”

“Cleaning what?” Roger asked. His eyes narrowed, and he shuffled forward to bring the robot’s face into better focus. Not that it was much of a face, lacking a mouth, with just a line for a nose. Two solid ovals served as eyes, which glowed faintly blue when the robot was running, and yellow when it was charging.

“Your bedding, sir.”

Roger harrumphed. “I told you to stay out of my room.”

“I promised you that I would only enter your room when it is necessary. It was time for your sheets to be changed, which I did.”

“Poking around in my drawers, no doubt. Invasion of privacy. Never get old, they say. But what else can you do?” Roger shook his finger at the robot. “I told my son I didn’t need a newfangled contraption, and what’s he say? My fall risk is too high. It’s you or a home. I’m not going to be put in a home!”

“As you say, sir. I am going to start a load of laundry, unless you require something first?” the robot said, unruffled.

Roger didn’t think robots even had tempers to ruffle. His son, Roger Jr., had assured him that the machine wasn’t conscious, not really. Only a very complicated set of routines.

Junior had been very clear that the robot stayed, or Roger had to leave his house, so he grumbled to himself, and shuffled aside to let the robot past.

He watched through the doorway as it efficiently started a load, cleaned and hung up the laundry basket, before opening a vacuum attachment from its arms, and with the faintest of hums, whisked away a couple defenseless dust bunnies.

Roger had been cleaning as best he could, but his bad back had meant he’d had to hire a cleaner a few years ago. Between them and food deliveries, he was doing just fine.

Junior needed to stop worrying.

“Come out here when you’re done!” he called, turning and shuffling to his chair in the living room.

“Of course, sir,” the robot extended the vacuum to the ceiling, retracted it, and then stepped lightly behind him, pausing to wait for him to clear the hallway.

Fast and quiet. Like the worst youngster ever.

Roger eased himself into his seat, and then looked around for his glasses. He’d sworn he’d taken them off and set them on the table next to his chair. He sometimes took a little nap, with the tv running.

They weren’t there.

“Can I be of assistance?” the robot asked.

“I can find my own glasses, tincan,” Roger snapped.

“As you prefer, sir,” the robot said, standing patiently as he rummaged, his muttering growing more vicious with every passing moment.

“Alright. Where are they?”

The robot leaned around him, swiftly plucking the glasses from where they lay, mostly hidden under yesterday’s newspaper.

“Don’t get smug, tincan.” Roger took the glasses, and slid them on.

“Of course not, sir. Smug is not in my programming. May I be of further assistance?”

“Do your cleaning in here, where I can keep an eye on you.” 

The robot nodded, unbothered, and set to work.

No chance of Roger admitting it to his son, but perhaps the tincan wasn’t so bad.

Faerie Gifts

Beware of fey bearing gifts…

Larry hurried along the path, glancing left and right, clutching an empty basket to his side. The town was laid out in a neat grid, without even a flower left to bloom, and a wide margin mown flat around the perimeter. Even so, his heart always beat faster when he neared the edges. The least desirable, and cheapest property clung to the edges. And that meant the cheapest bakery, too.

He half-ran the last few steps, flinging the door open and ducking inside.

The baker glowered behind the counter. “Do you have to rush in like that every time? We’re not in the woods, you’re safe.”

Larry ducked his head, mumbling an apology. He’d heard differently, but he didn’t want to waste time arguing. He took his mother’s usual order, wrapped it in the cloth she’d sent with him, and tucked it into the basket.

Back on the path, he turned his back to the forest. Hardly two steps in, and he heard the chiming of bells. He stiffened, hands aching from his grip on the basket handle.

A swirling, multi-color globe of light zipped over his shoulder, and hovered in front of him. A high, sweet voice said, “A gift for you, mortal.”

Larry gulped. He knew what happened to those that refused a faerie gift.  It didn’t matter how a human flattered or praised. Calling themselves unworthy, the gift too magnificent, and such, meant they’d either be labeled ungrateful–or too modest. Ingratitude earned humans a gift as lesson, such as the skill to heal beasts, and being forced to aid any injured animal within an hour’s walk. Modesty meant a gift to help that human know their worth–eyes a deep, crystalline blue not found in nature, or hair so silky and straight it never tangled, nor could be styled.

“You are too kind. What have you, in your wisdom, decided I deserve?” He forced the words out, brightening his tone, hoping he sounded awed and not terrified.

He hoped, desperately, to be lucky, like Alaina, the innkeeper at the center of town, who had a magically sharp knife that slid through bread like a whisper, never crushing the loaf. One of the stable hands had a shovel that magically cleaned itself of the fragrant products horses inevitably left behind.

His aunt knew a woman who’d gotten a laugh like a babbling brook, pretty though useless frippery for a young girl, and a bit jarring on a middle aged matron. A couple weeks ago, a young man from the center of town gained an unusual strength, and was still breaking eggs, plates, and chairs. He’d been training as a jeweler, and it could take months, if ever, before he could handle the delicate work again.

Bobbling, the globe of light drifted closer, the colors shifting to more blues and yellows. “Hmm. You acknowledge my wisdom… very wise of you.”

Larry ducked his head, widening his eyes to hold back the tears threatening to escape. This was going to be bad.

“Yes! I’ve changed my mind!” The globe burst brilliant yellow, with the barest hints of blue and green, and looped around his head. Triumphant delicate chimes tolled like a death knell. Twinkling motes of light rained down, landing on his head, shoulders, and chest.

Burning agony spread from each point of contact, and Larry bit his tongue to keep from groaning, sucking in a long breath through his nose.

“Thank you,” he forced out, after the fairy had made a second loop.

“You are very welcome, mortal!” The globe whirled so fast it hurt to look at, and zipped back into the trees.

Stiff-legged, Larry staggered back home, setting the bread basket on the table, and slumping into a chair.

“That took you long enough. I needed that bread–” his mother paused, her hand on the basket handle. “Larry? Did something happen?”

Without lifting his head from the table, he said, “I got a fairy gift.”

“You what? No! it’s not that close to the forest. It’s safe. It’s meant to be safe.”

“Who knows what the fairies think? And that bakery is right at the edge! It came right out of the trees, mother!”

“Well, what’s done is done. Do you know the gift you got?”

“It didn’t say. But it praised my wisdom in gratefully accepting the gift, so I’m certain I’m very, very cursed.”

I Forgot

This writing group prompt was “I forgot.” Short and sweet!

“Diane, what did I say about leaving your rugby gear on the floor?” I yelled, after having tripped over the half-zipped bag, sweat-ripe uniforms and dirty shoes spilling out of it.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot,” my daughter glanced up from her phone, a winning smile on her face. It seemed like every day she was closer to an adult, but also strangely like an eternity of trying to keep this everyday-a-new-stranger alive and mostly unharmed.

“Get, offspring!” I pointed dramatically towards the door.

She rolled her eyes, sighed deeply at the injustice of the world, but dragged herself away from the pile of sofa cushions to scoop up the bag, and drag it to the laundry room.

I waited for the clunk of her shoes on the rack, and the metallic clang of the washer. After endless discussions about the amazing funk her uniform bred left in the bag for days, she’d finally unbent to wash them after practice. Anyone who said teenage girls didn’t smell had clearly never lived with one who sweated and bled for a sport.

She emerged, holding the empty bag over her head triumphantly, like a trophy, as the sound of water filling the washer whooshed like gentle applause.

“Well done!” I said. “Now we won’t be suffocated next week. Do you remember what I said about your gear, though? And don’t say ‘I forgot.'”

Another deep sigh heaved, coming from somewhere in the earth’s core. “Da-aad…”

I waited.

“This is child abuse,” she complained, flinging herself in a sprawl of gangling, scabbed limbs back onto the sofa. “You said that if Hoover ate another one of my socks, his surgery would be coming out of my savings. But he’s out in the backyard trying to make friends with the neighbor’s chiweenie, so he wasn’t coming after my socks.”

I swiveled to peer out the glass back doors–yes, there was our affable idiot dog, part labrador, part golden retriever, but mostly vacuum cleaner, trying to play with the neighbor’s low-rider terror. The terror, Franky, was barking viciously and lunging upwards, getting absolutely nowhere near the top of the chain link fence, where Hoover’s fluffy paws rested. 

Hoover’s tail wagged madly. He was having an excellent time.

Franky didn’t seem to be enjoying himself, so much as singularly focused on getting his teeth into Hoover.

Too bad our dog couldn’t tell the difference between attempted murder and friendship, and more than he could tell the difference between dog food and dirty laundry.

Ring of Fire

This prompt was about fire–myths, practical use, and such. I like playing Dungeons & Dragons, so this is where my mind went. 🙂

Image from WikiMedia.

“Look, officers, I didn’t mean to set the building on fire.” The sorcerer pushed a lock of long, blond hair out of his face, adding another smudge of soot across his freckles.

“You set four buildings on fire,” the watch captain corrected, taking a seat behind her desk, and glowering at the sorcerer. The officers who’d escorted him, none too gently, into the room, left after she nodded at them.

The sorcerer watched the guards go, booted feet tapping, and hastily stilled when the Captain’s red eyes narrowed in a glare so scorching it could start a new blaze.

“I set one on fire,” he explained, “when I firebolted the orc trying to crush my skull in, and he went crashing through the window of the tavern. Which had, unfortunately, a straw-covered floor. The tavern caught the building next to it on fire. I would’ve put the fire out before it spread, had I not been arrested.”

The captain’s glower intensified to the point where her bushy eyebrows met over her nose. “You were arrested for good reason!”

“Was I supposed to let him crush my skull in? Would you have let him crush your skull, if you’d seen him swinging that huge spiky hammer thing at your head?”

“No,” the captain said, “I’d have kicked him in the balls.”

“And I’m sure he’d have been very sorry if you did so.” The sorcerer shrugged. “If I’d have kicked him in the balls, he’d have hit me anyway.” 

He wobbled a hand across his body in a way that indicated his scrawny arms, dusty and less than impressive legs, and complete lack of anything resembling armor or a weapon, other than a small eating knife on his belt.

For a long moment, the captain considered him. The eating knife wasn’t even particularly large. “So if we hadn’t arrested you…” She trailed off invitingly.

“I didn’t expect the orc to get up, still on fire, and run out into the street. Or for him to flounder into the wall across the street, which maybe shouldn’t have that much dead vegetation in front of it, really–” he paused as the Captain’s expression turned murderous again.

“But I have spells to extinguish flames,” he continued hastily. “I could have–and definitely would have!–extinguished both him and the tavern, just as soon as he stopped trying to flatten me.”

“Wizards. The whole lot of you should stay in your towers, and quit causing problems for the rest of us.”

“I’m not actually a–” the sorcerer began, then shut his mouth. “I’m very sorry?” 

“You’re sorry,” she said.

“Yes. Very, very, very sorry. I don’t have much money, for repairs… but I can, say, speed the growth of trees for lumber. Or summon food that will make it easier for people to make repairs. Or, I heard there’s a manticore with some treasure in the forest, and I could help–“

“We’ve had more than enough of your help,” the Captain said. “I don’t particularly want you in my jail, however.”

“I don’t want to be in it! I’ll make it untidy, probably.” He ran a hand through his golden hair, caught his fingers on a twig, winced, and untangled the vegetation. He stared thoughtfully at the twig, with two battered-looking leaves clinging on, and then held it out with a hopeful smile. “See?”

“Stop your nonsense. I won’t be charmed.”

He nodded, and folded his hands in his lap, trying to look penitent and somber, and achieving a sort of pained expression.

“You’re not going to be sick in here, are you?”

“No, no,” he traded his efforts for an attentive look.

The captain leaned away from him, face twisting in disgust. “We’ll be seizing your assets to defray the cost of repairs. I’ll send someone to speak with you about what you can contribute for the rest. It’ll be someone who knows magic, so don’t go trying to pass off a spark in the pan spell, mind.”

“I would never!”

She growled, the sound making him shrink in on himself.

“Okay, okay, I might. But I absolutely don’t want you to hunt me down and kill me. If you don’t believe in my integrity, believe in my self-preservation.”

The Captain stood, hands on the edge of her desk, muscles shifting in her arms and she dug her nails into the wood. “I don’t like it. I don’t like you. But you’ll do as you’re told.”

“Of course!”

She sighed, straightening.

He tried to keep a blank expression, his other efforts having failed so spectacularly.

“Olerin!” She bellowed, and a delicate face leaned around the door frame.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Deal with this–” she clicked her teeth shut on her next word. “Deal with this. The wizard’s promised spells for repairing the four burning buildings he damaged.”

“Yes, Captain.” The elf stepped to the side of the doorway.

“Get out of my sight, wizard,” the captain snapped.

The sorcerer scrambled out of the chair, though he couldn’t resist tossing over his shoulder. “I’m a sorcerer, it’s different, because–” his words ended on a yelp as Olerin yanked him away from the office.

“If you’d like to see tomorrow, I suggest you learn to do as you’re told. What did you do to that orc, anyway?”

The sorcerer brightened. “That’s kind of a funny story, really…”

“Summarize it in ten words or less,” Olerin said, his slender fingers tightening painfully on the sorcerer’s arm.

The sorcerer thought, his fingers twitching as he counted and recounted. “He couldn’t take a joke?”

“Oh, great, you’re an idiot. Come on, let’s see what you can manage that isn’t burning down half a street.”

No Intelligent Life Here

This prompt was about order and balance. My mind immediately went on a sinister twist…

Image from WikiMedia Commons by
Stiller Beobachter

We knew there was other intelligent life out there. Stands to reason, right? And we had protocols in place for when we met them, out in the vastness of space.

Instead, they found us. On our first colony, barely hanging on, a tiny cluster of domes on a desolate moon. They had a protocol, too, it turned out. Which involved, among other things, the composition of the visitors. Two equal groups, from two alliances, both with a handful of species in them.

The groups approached us together, offering a clearly memorized greeting that one representative started, and another finished. We were welcome to remain separate from either, but equally welcome to join an alliance. Each could offer advances in technology, employment opportunities on settled planets, and a wealth of cultural knowledge.

Sapients for Optimal Protocol included several species like us–thick skinned, armed with sharp teeth or claws, boasting a tail. That endeared them to us from the start, to see ourselves mirrored in their eyes.

The others, The Independent Cooperative, called the Sapients something like ‘stick-spines,’ or, perhaps ‘rigid.’ They called themselves Indies, or Coops, or something untranslatable about light refracting prisms.

The Sapients called the Independent Cooperative the Independent Cooperative. 

The Cooperative was… strange. We didn’t warm to them at first. They had one species much like ours, but also a strange tailless biped that completely lacked scales, or hide, except for a small amount perched ridiculously atop its head like a hat. Another traveled in a semi-transparent envelope, flooded with a murky blue-green gas, with glimpses of chitinous limbs that triggered hatchling horrors of spiders. We didn’t study them closely.

We spoke to both alliances, of course. The Sapients offered lists of the technology we would access, and descriptions of the habitats of the worlds they claimed–some even with atmosphere we could breathe, unlike the moon we currently stood on. Reams and reams of data, enough to take days to wade through.

The Cooperative seemed less organized. They had a presentation, in more general terms, of the good they could offer. But strangely, they focused on their interpersonal arrangements. How they worked together, adjusting for each species’ needs. How strengths could balance out a weakness.

Their species that resembled us, the Thritek, had small scales in a mottled green pattern they told us matched the vegetation of their homeworld. When they saw that we were most comfortable with those like us, they drew us aside, to tell us a story.

On their planet of origin, they had an embarrassment of riches. Dense foliage, plants that grew to towering heights we could scarce believe, more water than we could imagine, and so much life. Burrowing life under the dirt, life scurrying along the ground, life climbing the tall plants, life flying between the branches, life in the large flowing waters and pools.

Pools of water so big you could not see across them. We thought that must be a lie, but the Thritek showed us image after image, until we conceded it might be true. 

From this teeming life emerged not one, but three intelligent species. The Thritek, from a large, scaled ground carnivore, the Qhel, from a small, flying insectivore, and the Braxar, from a medium, furred ground omnivore. 

There was a Qhel, among the representatives of the Cooperative. They were not very small, by our reckoning, being about two thirds our height, with wings far larger than us. There were no Braxar. Not in the group, or anywhere else. None living anywhere.

This information sent a ripple of dread through us, and we wondered why the Thritek had chosen to tell us such a tale. But we listened, still.

The three species had cooperated well enough, with the Braxar and Thritek developing the closest rapport, because they didn’t have to compete for resources. The Thritek ate very little that wasn’t meat, and the Braxar ate very little that wasn’t vegetation, so they could share the excess of their hunting or farming, and be content.

When approached, as we had been, the Qhel chose to strike out on their own with the Cooperative, and the Thritek favored, as we did, the Sapients and their technological focus. Their partners the Braxar came with them, to work together in a better future.

But there was, the Thritek said, tail drooping, a reason so many of the Sapients resembled each other. They believed in order. Uniformity. Efficiency. In finding the best option for the greatest number, and in mass production of whatever goods or process they found optimal.

On their homeworld, the Thritek hadn’t thought much of how the Braxar varied from them. Larger, with more joints on their hands, and much a different ocular apparatus. Before, the two species had worked well, side by side, though often with specialized tools.

The complaints of the Braxar had seemed petty at first. They were a patient people, and both species were used to cooperation, to helping each other. The Thritek made the new technology work. But when the Braxar were paired with other Sapients, no accommodations were made.

Rules would be followed, strictly.

So, there were accidents. A slow, but steady, attrition.

Finally, the Braxar’s patience was exhausted. They wished to be free of oppressive rules. The rules required that species who separate from the Sapients must leave as they came. Surrender each piece of technology, each bit of stored supplies. The Cooperative and the Sapients are allies, but not particularly friendly ones.

For all their lives lost, the Braxar felt owed something. No matter the rules. 

The Sapients disagreed.

In the aftermath, the Thritek couldn’t remain with the Sapients. They struggled, for a time, alone, and then the Qhel coaxed them to the Collective, where they found less technological wonders, but a warmer welcome.

We listened to the end of this story in silence. We knew one of us must speak. Glances exchanged, heads cocked, tails swished. The shorthand of a species.

“That is… a great loss.” I said, feeling the inadequacy of the words. “One we can confirm?”

Someone hissed behind me, but the words had been said.

“Of course, easily done.” The Thritek said, unbothered. “It’s part of their history. Other species have made the same… they call it an error. Or theft. It’s quite rare, and they are proud of that fact.”

“What has your story to do with us?” My partner asked. “You say your species blended well. Would we not do the same?”

“You’re like them, but no two species are identical. We only wish to ensure you understand what you’re being offered. And what you will need to do in return. The Sapients integrate and homogenize. They embrace order, unity, and law, with very little flexibility. Consider that, as you decide.” 

“A valid point,” my partner conceded. This new information would alter the debate going forward, if confirmed.

Dragonslayer

Another prompt–I have a back log!–about finishing the quest. Success looks like something different for different people, but here’s a dragonslayer’s story.

Image from WikiMedia by Petar Milošević

Roberta was a dragonslayer, and she was excellent at the job. The problem was–kings. Kings and their fondness for offering their daughter’s hand in marriage as the reward for slaying a dragon. Luckily, not every king thought the ability to kill a large, carnivorous beast meant a person was good royalty material.

But some of them were too poor, too lazy—or sometimes too embattled by other kingdoms wanting the princess for their heirs. Of course, they didn’t want to give the princess to Roberta, their goal being a king who could help produce future heirs to the throne. 

Roberta could do a lot of things, but she couldn’t get another woman pregnant.

So, each time she pulled off her helmet and revealed her face, there were… discussions. Often, loud royal snit fits, but in the end, they’d negotiate. Being known as a king who cheated a dragonslayer guarenteed no one would slay any future scaled invaders. As long as she got paid, Roberta was happy.

Until she went to rescue Princess Lenore, who was being held hostage by the monster, and not waiting safely in the castle for her knight in battered armor. Lenore held her own pretty well, which wasn’t usually the case. The princess escaped the dragon before it ate her—dragons didn’t, contrary to myth, hold onto any human, royalty or not, for longer than it took the beast to get hungry. She hid in the cave, unable to escape through the open countryside surrounding the dragon’s lair without risking getting caught again. She scavenged food and water, and stayed alive for the two weeks before Roberta arrived. Eight assorted knights and nobles died in the interim, failing to rescue Princess Lenore.

After the dragon lay dead, Roberta peeled off parts of her armor to check her injuries and wipe off the sweat. Despite what people assumed, Roberta wasn’t hiding her gender. She had good, practical armor, which didn’t include two curving pieces over what wasn’t a particularly ample bosom.

She saw the princess limp out of the cave, and nodded, starting to redon her armor for the presentation.

“You’re a woman,” Lenore noted, her expression thoughtful.

“Don’t tell me your father’s offering you as a reward,” Roberta puffed, exasperated. The dragon, fat and well fed, had been in stupor, and not the most difficult kill she’d had. But it still wasn’t easy to kill a beast that size, and she ached from the effort. 

“He is, and I can tell you’re not pleased.”

Roberta shrugged. “I’d rather be paid.”

“I’ll ensure that happens,” Lenore promised, “but why don’t you marry me anyway?”

“What?”

“Haven’t you killed enough dragons? Don’t you want to live the rest of your life in some kind of peace?” Lenore asked.

Roberta couldn’t argue about that, but she saw plenty of weaknesses in this plan. “Yes, but–” 

“Hide your face, and we’ll work something out,” the princess said.

“Work something out?” Roberta echoed. “I don’t see how!”

The princess considered, her dirty fingertips tapping on the rocky cave wall. “No, it’s perfect. My father’s heir, after me, is a cousin of mine. The dragon killed most of his family…”

“Yes, perfect,” Roberta said, stung by the casual way the princess spoke about the slaughter.

“I don’t mean it like that. It’s terrible, how many people have died. But, I can’t change that. I can change the future.”

Roberta made a ‘go on’ gesture.

 “What I mean is… he’s young. We can raise him, and his younger sister, as our heirs. They’re next in line. No need for me to go through childbirth.” She shuddered.

“And your father will go along with this, after he finds out I’m a woman?”

“We’ll have to make sure he doesn’t have a choice. Say you’ve made a vow, or are under a spell or something, so you can’t remove the helmet.  We can work out the details. Then you take off your helm after we’re married, in front of some important witnesses.” Lenore considered. “I can think of a few who would keep him from stopping us.”

“And the rest of the marriage?”

“What do you think princesses do, with all those ladies in waiting, kept away from any men?” Roberta winked.

Current of Time

The prompt this time was the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. It made me wonder how such ruins could have been concealed, and why.

Image from WikiMedia by DestinationFearFan

“The hanging gardens of Babylon still exist,” a voice slurred behind me.

I turned. A disreputable looking young man, shirt partly untucked from his pants, a section of hair standing up in the back, and smelling distinctly of beer, gazed earnestly at me.

“Do they now?” I asked. 

Clearly he’d overheard part of my discussion with fellow archeologists, musing on whether or not we’d ever be able to safely explore under the waters of the Euphrates, and discover if the gardens had in fact been flooded.

“Yeah. Underwater. You can see ‘em by boat, though, with a flashlight.” He raised a hand, folded some fingers, squinted at his digits, and rearranged them. “Scout’s honor.”

“Ridiculous. If it were that simple, we’d have discovered the gardens already.”

“You hafta be in the riiight spot.”

“Of course.” I stood, grabbed my satchel, and nodded to my colleagues. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Tragically, I didn’t see Gustavo the next day, or any after. He and Brynn had stayed to listen to the drunk, and then she’d retired for the evening, leaving Gus behind.

No one paid much attention to the two men leaving the bar, both weaving and in good spirits. A parking lot camera caught them disappearing into the darkness. And that was the end of the trail, a paucity of information that meant there was no way to know if it was misadventure or malice behind Gus’ disappearance.

Though I’d never been particularly fond of Gus, knowing that I’d contributed to his end was painful. If I’d demanded the drunk leave us alone, maybe Gus would still be alive.

Fifteen years later, I still thought of Gus from time to time, a worn-down ‘what could have been’ type of worry. Especially as I sat in a pub as I did now, the remnants of a substandard meal in front of me.

And then I spotted that same drunk–his straw-brown hair sticking up on the side, in a t-shirt and shorts instead of a button-down. But the same exact red-flushed face, with a constellation of freckles, and watery brown eyes.

Impossible. He hadn’t aged a day. Maybe a son, or a brother, or some other relation.

He waved a hand, and my heart leapt. The drunk from before had been missing his two smallest fingers on his left hand, only stumps remaining. Ugly remnants that had caught my attention, because you’d usually get that surgically neatened up.

It had to be him. Impossible, yet somehow true.

I had to know.

Settling into a corner, I nursed a variety of non-alcoholic beers, until he finally made his goodbyes and left. I slipped out after him a minute later, scanning the parking lot for his stumbling form.

Empty. Silent.

My ears strained as I turned in a slow circle. Nothing but the whine of crickets. Deflated, I headed to my car, keys jingling.

The lock popped, and I opened the door. A hand fell on my shoulder, grip so hard I yelped.

“It’s you again, isn’t it?” It was the drunk, only he wasn’t drunk. His gaze was steady and cold, and he no longer wobbled in place.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I swept my arm out to knock his hand off me, but my forearm clanged painfully off his.

He snickered. “You weren’t as subtle as you thought you were.” His gazed flickered past my shoulder, and he smiled. I wasn’t generally prone to exaggeration, but his expression was… evil.

Someone cleared their throat from behind me. I whipped around, straining to turn with the man still gripping my shoulder.

It was Gus, unchanged from my memory of the last time I’d seen him fifteen years ago.

He smiled. “You shouldn’t have left so early. You missed an amazing discussion.”

“What? How?” I couldn’t marshal my thoughts. This was simply too much.

“If you survive the conversion, I’ll explain,” Gus said. “And you’ll finally get to see the hanging gardens for yourself.”

The man behind me shifted his grip, and clamped a cloth over my face. As the world swam and darkened at the edges, I found myself wondering which I hoped for–answers, or an escape from whatever had claimed Gus?