Running Free

Another stab at Master Class Monday at Our Write Side


Fiona ran through the forest. A stark landscape of naked trees and fresh snowfall kept her within full view of her pursuers. Her breath blew  puffs of steam as her feet crunched the ice crusted snow. She didn’t dare look behind her. If she could see their eyes she knew it was the end of her run. 

Her feet were numb, the boots not tall enough to keep the snow from soaking her socks. Bushes and fallen branches conspired to throw Fiona to the ground. Fear was her friend, it gave adrenal fueled strength to her tiring legs. But fear couldn’t change the landscape.

While Fiona scanned the ground in front of her, she failed to mark the sudden end of the tree-line. She tumbled down a steep bank and hit the frozen river hard. Scrambling on the icy surface, she regained her feet. Finally, she turned to look behind.

Most of  the hunting party stood at the top of the bank. Two of their number carefully descended to the river’s edge and tested the footing before moving toward her. 

She uttered a hopeless moan, then turned toward the opposite bank. She moved her feet in an awkward sliding run as the watchers laughed at her attempt to elude them. The two behind her didn’t move any faster. As she crossed the center she glanced between her feet and gasped at the view of running water only inches below the ice. 

A groan sounded from beneath, ending her wide eyed stare and she pushed her body forward. Fiona threw herself across the ice as an ear shattering crack echoed along the river. The treacherous heaving of the failing ice propelled her forward. The water roared as the river broke through the frozen blanket. She raced the free flowing water across the ice. The small floe she stood upon tilted back toward the frigid depths. In terror she thrust her arms forward, grasping for a miracle, and found a low-hanging branch. She gripped the rough bark and dragged herself up the empty bank.

Over the sound of the rushing water she heard the screams of the pair that had followed her. Their cries punctuated by fainter curses from the other bank. She looked back as the river embraced the men and carried them downstream. She met the eyes of their captain across the gap, felt the hatred sharp as a physical blow. 

Panting with exhaustion, Fiona broke the gaze and ran into the next forest of naked trees and fresh fallen snow.

Final Farewell

Another prompted piece with Master Class Monday   at Our Write Side


We sat on the shore. No moon lit the night, as we nestled against each other shivering as the lake rippled in front of us. Its wavelets invisible in the dark.

There was no where left to run. 

Our arms bruised by scraping against the trees behind us. Knees bleeding through our jeans from multiple falls while tripping through the underbrush. 

Pursuers just steps behind away.

It had begun so routinely. A night out, no celebration, just a trip for something to eat. We hadn't reached our destination when we became aware of the footsteps behind us.

We stopped to look back, nothing to be seen. The steps stopped, just like in the movies.

We’re just imagining things, we said to each other. And started on our way again.

As did the steps.

We picked up our pace from a stroll to a fast walk. Finally to a run.

There was no traffic, the light from street lamps seemed dimmer than they should have been. They gave nothing away of the beasts behind us.

We pounded on doors. Though we heard movement inside, no one answered our screams for help.

So we continued to run.

The tiny woods enclosed us before we realized it. Initial panic was relieved by the thought we could lose them in the darkness. Until the branches cracked too close behind us. 

Then came the race to escape blindly through the maze of trees.

By the time we reached the lake we understood they had just been toying with us. They could have had us at any time. 

So we sat shivering on the shore. Holding each other, we whispered tearful goodbyes.

As we waited for the opulent sunrise to burn our flesh away.

Tempus Fugit

This week's offering for Master Class Monday at EatSleepWrite. I chose the prompt; Waylaid Mutterings.
I also took inspiration from The Light and Shade Challenge. The prompts were a photo of a grandfather's clock and the quotation; Tempus Fugit.

Christian lost his concentration, his muttered chanting waylaid by the three percussive chimes of the grandfather clock downstairs still reverberating in his ears. Blinking in confusion he unfolded his legs and pushed his aching muscles to stand. He stretched his shoulders as he shuffled across the room, heedless of the thin line of salt scattered by his feet.

He stumbled into the dark hallway and found his way to the bathroom. Flipping the switch, Christian sighed in annoyance at its refusal to shed light. Reaching for the cold water handle he was greeted not with water but a dry gurgle.

He stomped downstairs to the front window and yanked the drapes open. He scanned his neighbors' homes for signs of power. The street was in darkness, no porch lights, no street lamps. His attention was drawn to several junk yard worthy vehicles sitting randomly along the street. Christian's mood shifted slowly from anger to puzzlement. A power outage, not unheard of, but someone parking junk cars in a neighborhood was bizarre. 

With the power down the house was eerily silent. The only sound came from the clock, its pendulum whispering back and forth in the narrow space. How long had it been? He remembered sitting within the pentagram and lighting candles. He'd started the memorized chant, the one that promised to make the world a better place. 

He bounded back up the stairs. Entering the room he'd recently left, opened the curtain to let the sparse light from a waning moon into the room. The candles had burnt to the bottom. Christian huffed to himself, "Five day candles? Yeah, right!"

He returned to the lower floor, this time going into the kitchen. If there was no electricity, he ought to eat before everything spoiled. The refrigerator door took an extra tug to open, as it did Christian was greeted with a small dust cloud that reeked of mold.

"What the hell?" he cried. His limited vision couldn't determine the contents and he wasn't inclined to stick his hands into the unknown depths. Slamming the offending appliance shut, he wandered to the back door. Grabbing the knob, he stood a moment, an odd tingle of fear keeping his hand from turning it.

Pushing down the uncomfortable feeling, Christian threw the door open and stepped onto the small concrete stoop. The silence of the dark pressed against him. He held his breath as he listened for the sound of distant traffic, the scamper of a rodent, the creak of tree limbs. He heard nothing. No breeze moved, the air was sterile and tasteless. 

Paranoia won and Christian bolted back inside, locking the door behind him.

He paced the room, mumbling to himself, "Wait for daylight, ask the neighbors what's going on. Walk uptown, find a newspaper. Stop being a wuss!"

A chill filled the space, stopping Christian's internal rant. His heart pounding he closed his eyes and uttered a prayer that was ironic in its direct opposition to the chant he'd recited previously. 

A guttural laugh silenced him. "Too late to switch sides now, Christian. You've done well. The world is a much better place." The voice mocked him.

Christian dropped to his knees, "How long has it been? I have to know." he asked through chattering teeth. 

"Twenty years. It takes a lot of chanting to accomplish a change of this magnitude." A snide chuckle accompanied the startling statement. "Time flies when you're having fun, right?"

Campfire Story

My offering for Master Class Monday on Eat Sleep Write
I chose the prompt forlorn phantasms




Ott felt the muscles twitching under the saddle.  He unconsciously squeezed the mare's rib cage, willing her to stay still.  The steady north wind hid the blow of breath she uttered to let him know she was not content with the current situation.

"I swear, animal, you're half puma, half ass." He rubbed the velvety hide of her neck as he slid the long rifle from its scabbard.  He'd glimpsed furtive movement just outside the light of the fire he'd left burning low. 

His pack horse tied near the camp and a carefully placed bedroll gave the appearance of a sleeping cowboy.  Ott had walked the black mare up a wooded ridge before sunset to watch for what had been raiding his rations for the past few nights.

As he watched, the pack horse began to dance nervously against its tether. His mare tensed in response to the other animal's discomfort.

"Steady girl," Ott whispered. Moments later three shadows emerged from the brush. Bodies hugging the ground, they moved cautiously toward the camp.

They scuttled soundlessly on four limbs, spider like in their progress. An occasional lift of heads as they checked for scent.

Ott squinted into the dark, trying to identify the creatures. They'd avoided the pack animal and the bedroll, going directly to the food he'd placed on the opposite side of the fire. The trio converged on the meager pile, pushing each other in their silent rush to be first to claim the prize.

Ott sighted down the rifle, finger ready on the trigger. As he steadied to fire, one raised its head. The glow of the coals illuminated the pale face of a child.

Startled, he lowered the gun. When the mare snorted in response to his abrupt movement, all three heads turned his way. They crouched, motionless around the pile of food. Ott felt their eyes fix on him. Tamping down the uneasiness in his gut, Ott prodded his mount forward. She stepped hesitantly down the incline, sensing either his own trepidation or the gazes of the eyes below.

They never stirred as he wove the mare through trees, but Ott sensed them following him. The horse stopped several yards from camp, refusing to move any further. Dismounting with the rifle, he approached slowly, aware of the continued scrutiny. As he came closer he could see the glow of the coals reflected in black eyes. Spindly limbs bent at elbows and knees, they perched on hands and feet, bellies close to the earth. Forgotten children left to fend for themselves.

As he crossed the camp's perimeter, one of them emitted an eerie howl. A return howl combined with renewed rustling in the surrounding brush brought Ott to a halt. The pack horse now panicked, slipped its tether and galloped into the surrounding dark as at least a dozen more forlorn phantasms moved into view.

Ott eased back toward the unnerved whinny of the mare. Any concern he may have felt was swiftly replaced by a knot of fear as the pack moved after him. He turned and sprinted the final distance to his horse, the animal stomping and wild eyed as he vaulted into the saddle. He didn't waste time calming the animal as the brush expelled even more bodies. 

He hung on as the mare reared in terror as the horde surrounded them. He kicked her into motion, intending to charge through the mass of bodies. Ott glimpsed, too late the leap that propelled one of them into his chest, knocking him from his seat. 

He lay winded within the tightening circle as hoof beats disappeared into the night.

The Draw

This is my response to the EatSleepWrite-Flash it Friday prompt.  



"Draw two cards." Caught by surprise, Casey stopped on her trip back to the plane's galley. The man hadn't spoken but three words since he'd boarded, those being yes, pertaining to the lunch offering, and thank you when she removed the empty tray.

"Excuse me?" As she waited for him to repeat his question she tried to place his age. He wore a black overcoat and a worn black bowler, dark glasses covered the top half of his pale face. The only visible color was the blood red of a thin tie.

"Draw two cards." He fanned the deck before her.

"Is this a magic trick?" She smiled as an indecipherable unease crept through her shoulders.

"Perhaps." His thin lips attempted a smile in return.

She glanced around the cabin, looking for a valid excuse to flee. She could feel his unseen eyes staring into hers. Holding her breath, she tugged two cards from the deck.

"And what have you drawn?"

Casey wrenched her gaze from the reflection of her own eyes in his dark glasses to study her cards. "A pair of aces."

His brows appeared above the dark frames. "A pair of aces? How unusual."

With increasing discomfort, Casey snapped out, "Yes, a diamond and a spade. So did I win?"

"Perhaps. It seems you have a decision to make, my dear. Riches or death."

She thrust the cards at him, "No, no I don't." 

He grasped her hands and wrapped them around the pair, "No, my dear, these are yours. You needn't decide now, but eventually you must." He maintained the contact for several minutes, still holding her gaze with his unseen stare.

The call of "Stewardess!" from several seats forward broke the spell. Casey pulled away roughly, tucking the cards in her pocket unconsciously.

She avoided him the rest of the routine flight. Comfort didn't return until the flight ended and her feet touched the tarmac.

She hadn't expected it to be her last day at work. Cost cuts and low seniority left her unemployed.

Another day in a month of days looking for work. Casey had skipped breakfast, and lunch was probably going to be one more cup of ramen noodles. She was blocks from her apartment when the sky opened up, soaking her in seconds.

The closest shelter was a school bus parked along a desolate side street. The door was open, she hesitated only a moment before hopping up the steps. She dropped into the first seat wringing out her hair as her clothes shed puddles around her waterlogged shoes. She leaned back, depressed and exhausted, she drifted into an uncomfortable sleep.

She woke to the sound of the doors closing with a hydraulic hiss. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she sputtered, jumping from her seat.

"No problem, my dear." The driver turned his sun glassed face her way, "It is time to make your decision." 

Casey fell back to the seat as he started the engine and rolled away from the curb.

Unexpected Guests

This next part is not as serene as the introductory chapter found here.  Annag's life is about to change...

The sun had just begun to set when the clan hounds began to howl.

“Well, my daughter. I’m thinking that MacGoulan has finally arrived to take you away.” Donnchadh took Annag by the shoulders. “I wish only the best in life for you, child.” He blinked back the tears that threatened to escape. “I will sorely miss that sunset hair.” He gave her a great hug then turned quickly away.

Taog came forward to take her hand. They would greet his clansmen together.

The hounds had continued baying, louder and more excited. The laughter and chatter in the house matched their enthusiasm.

Until one of the hounds screamed in pain. And the tone of the baying changed from greeting to terror. Then fell silent.

As Donnchadh reached for his great broadsword, the heavy wooden door burst open. A dozen bodies poured through the opening.

Annag didn’t want to believes what she was seeing. This was not the MacGoulan. This was the stories told late at night to frighten children. These were nightmares come to visit.

“Wulver!” she heard someone cry.

The beasts were upon the gathering in an instant. Taog pushed her behind him as the monsters came. She heard he screams of women and cries of men realizing they were too far from their weapons.

Her father’s blade swung hard at the first wave, one beast yelped in pain and turned away. Then targeted another man with only a heavy chair for defense. The pain maddened attacker ripped it from him, and his arm that had wielded it.

Other men had reached knives or swords, but they were no match for fangs and the claws that grew from hand-like paws.

Taog had no weapon, he made no sound when his throat was torn by gnashing teeth.

Her mother, Mara had joined Donnchadh, an iron fire poker her weapon. Six of the beasts closed on them. Annag heard her father roar his rage just before the hand that held his blade was severed by knife like teeth.

She watched his heavy broadsword fall to the ground. His body followed, pulled down by three of the creatures. She didn’t see her mother being torn apart next to him.

Annag’s eyes were still fixed on the blade. She’d made no sound. Her terror had stolen her screams. But her body lunged for the fallen weapon. Once it was in her hands, she felt her fear turn to anger. With strength she didn’t recognize, she swung the blade.

One beast fell, the wound in its neck pouring blood. She swung again. A second beast snarled in pain. As it backed away, one of her clansmen stuck a knife between its ribs.

She spun around hearing her young sister’s scream. She swung again, but was far too late. A moan fled from her chest as she saw her sweet  sister’s head fall from her shoulders. Her grief fuelled fury made certain the beast that was responsible was headless a moment later.

She felt fire skate across her back. She turned, blade singing through the small space. The beast that struck her was already down. The man that slew it lay dying from too many wounds, a small smile gracing his face in that final act.

Annag didn’t know how much time had passed since the attack had begun. She only knew that it was suddenly silent. No more beasts came at her. No more screams of her clan. No more growls of the unnatural beasts.

As she became aware of her rasping breath, her racing heart, her eyes took in the horror before them. Her family, her people, dismembered, mutilated, all dead. The silence was broken by one last scream. She fell to the ground as it escaped her exhausted body.

In the Company of Shadows

We are a solitary people, uneasy in groups.  Among our own kind we are considered loners, introverts. Outcasts. 

Rather than gather about an overflowing table for our morning meal, we favor a seat beside a gently burbling stream. No reason to make others uncomfortable with our discomfort.   

Our preference is the company of ourselves, one on none.

It is not a lonely life, but a life alone. We do not live in silence. Far from it. Each appliance has a voice as distinct as birds' songs. Pets listen to our spoken thoughts and answer with purr or tail wag. Outdoors, the leaves whisper secrets, and all that walk, crawl, or fly have something to tell us. I am used to their company, the hurry and scurry, chatter and twitter. Presence without infringement.

So, it was startling when I first noticed my new companion. Just out of the corner of my eye, a darker shape. My shadow, I was certain. Yet, uncertain, a hint of something...wrong.

Throughout the summer and fall I covertly watched. It hid in the sun spattered trees, blinking in and out with the whim of light. Always just on the edge of my vision. I made conscious moves to put the sun at my back. My shadow fell in front, just as it should, nothing amiss.

As autumn rolled into winter and the leaves fell away, there were no places for my shadow to hide. One bright morning after a day's snowfall, I caught the stark contrast of that shadow against the white blanketed earth. It stood beside me as I shifted my eyes without turning my head. Again, the feeling of something not quite right.

Each day it was with me, sometimes following, sometimes leading. Other times, on the right or left.  On cloudless days I surreptitiously kept watch. Puzzling over what it was that didn't conform to how my shadow should appear. In frustration, I quickly turned my head to view it fully. As is a shadow's habit, it moved as quickly. I viewed it full on, taking in the contours of the profile, the shape of the body, the feet, where they met with mine. 

Its profile...I was facing it. I should not have seen a profile That was the wrong I'd sensed before, watching peripherally. There should have been a profile then. The shadow had been watching me!

The unease I had felt before slowly slid through disbelief, then quickly onward to fear. I backed away, my shadow obediently following. My instinct to turn tail and run was held at bay by the knowledge it would be following me. I could not outpace my own shadow. My rattled thoughts held me frozen, my breath coming in gasps. As I watched, the shadow, my shadow, moved its arms into a position that I recognized as clutching its chest. My own arms hung at my side, awaiting the message to flee.

Panic finally delivered that message as the thing impersonating my shadow crumpled in classic heart attack fashion. Feet unconsciously finding purchase on the snow crusted ground, arms pumping, I ran. The only fully formed thought in my mind was the certainty that I had not left that shadow behind. 

Racing through the naked trees, pounding over open meadow, I tried not to look at it. But as my course turned direction, the shade fell in beside me. The unmistakable shape of scissors appeared in one hand. I stumbled as I quickly checked my own to be sure I wasn't carrying any. Catching myself before I could fall, I slowed my steps. What might happen if my shadow fell upon its shadow scissors? 

Moving with care, keeping my eyes forcibly away from my companion, I eventually made my way home. Once inside, I slammed the door, as if that would keep the thing out. Afternoon sunlight blazed through the living room window, the drapes open wide to let it in. I frantically pulled them closed. The shadow was made less distinct in the dimness. I visited each room, pulling drapes shut and dropping blinds. The little light that leaked through was not enough to give my shadow shape. 

That was three weeks ago. I haven't gone out during daylight since. The winter shortened days have allowed me to leave after dark for grocery shopping.  But this week, the moon has been waxing toward full. My one attempt to traverse the lunar lit landscape ended within moments of exiting my home. I caught sight of it to my left. Once it was aware of my gaze, it mimicked tripping over some invisible obstacle. I watched transfixed as it fell, seemingly with some force. The resulting pain in my knees and wrist answered that month old question. 

I live in the dark now. Because I know what might happen if my shadow fell upon its shadow scissors.



 

I haven't written for ages it seems.  But thanks to the wondrous group at Write on Edge, I decided to take a leap.
They gave us this prompt:

“It takes two to make an accident.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

The details:

• 1000 word limit, all genres of creative writing are welcome.
• linky is open until Friday, February 21, at 11:55pm Pacific
• Use the F. Scott Fitzgerald quote above as an opening/closing line or draw inspiration from it, your choice.
• Community voting opens 2/22 and closes 2/28 at 11:55pm Pacific.
• Community and editorial choice winners will be announced on Write on Edge and Bannerwing Books on Monday, March 3, 2014.
• All entries must be original work, only published on your personal blog/website, and by entering you give Write on Edge and Bannerwing Books permission to reprint your entry in Precipice, Volume III‘s print and digital formats, as well as permission to edit for grammatical, spelling, and typographical errors.
• Have fun!

No Powerful Magic

Trifextra: Week Ninety 

Congratulations to the winners of Week 99!!

On now to our quick little Trifextra prompt.  Katherine Paterson, author of Bridge to Terabithia, wrote, “It's like the smarter you are, the more things can scare you.”  We are looking for a 33-word explanation of what scares you (or your character). - See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.mGhTrElE.dpuf

I've searched all the mystical places I've built inside my mind.

And weep, for there is no spell, nor enchanted sword

To protect the children from the monsters that walk here 

Among us 

Awakening

Master Class 2013-Motherhood and Desperation


The Master Class is back in session!  It was my honor to choose this week's prompt.  I went a different direction than my usual "weird and twisted"   Any feed back is welcome!  And now...

Professor Stephanie says "I asked Renee to open any book of her choosing, open it to page 152, and give me the second line of the last paragraph.  She chose T.H. White’s The Once and Future King. Your line for this week, to be used anywhere in your story is:

“Desperation had given him authority.”

Wake the muse and get to work. Time is a-wasting. All assignments are now due by 9:00 pm EST on TUESDAYS. The new Master Class will go live every Wednesday (and to keep you on your toes, I’ll leave the time open. (: )

I expect to see a link up to YOUR story by Tuesday, April 16th, 9 PM EST.

The link up is live. Ready? Set? Write!!"

Joe huddled in the corner of the bench, his hands wrapped around the greasy brown bag that wrapped around the bottle.  His once olive green jacket, now faded to grime streaked gray, was stiff with old sweat.  Dirty nails tapped to a silent melody playing for him alone.  He stared vacantly at the traffic mauled street as lunch hour pedestrians hurried by, intent on seeing anything but him. 

Whether it was the squeal of several sets of brakes harmonizing with the rip of metal, or the orange that rolled jauntily across the sidewalk to his feet, Joe's attention suddenly focused on the scene in front of him.  

an elderly woman frantically tried to free herself from her car, that now straddled the curb. The middle aged executive slumped over the steering wheel of the BMW embedded in her sedan's rear quarter panel. the young Latina lay on the sidewalk, her groceries scattered around her.  The toddler with her recovered from his shock and began to scream in confusion and fear.

The people of lunch hour stood watching, uncertain what to do.  Their mouths pursed in O's of concern, eyes darting from one to the other.

Joe leaned forward, waiting, watching.  He tucked his bag in the corner of his bench.  As the toddler stumbled in widening circles around his fallen mama, Joe stood.  

To the passers-by, he simply materialized from the air.  With a voice so unused it sounded like the grinding of gears, he pleaded for someone to call 911.

They looked at him, then each other, and waited.  His desperation gave him authority.  Joe grabbed the shoulder of a khaki clad young man, his thumbs sliding across the touch screen that was his world. "Do you know how to make an actual call on that thing?  Call 911!"

The boy looked up, only then seeing the chaos.  "Holy shit!  Holy shit!" he pressed the keys and put the phone to his ear.

"Good boy!  Tell them holy shit there's been an accident with injuries"  Joe moved to the mother on the sidewalk, she moaned and tried to get up. "No, don't move, wait for the paramedics." he soothed.

"Bebe!" was all she said.  Joe located the boy and brought him to his mother, "He's okay, don't move."  He reached for the hand of a girl with bright blue hair, "You!  Come sit with her, talk to her! Hold the boy next to her!  Don't let her get up."

Regaining his feet he leaned into the window of the sedan. "Help is on the way.  Are you alright?"  

"I can't get out!"  she cried.

"They'll get you out...are you hurt?" She shook her head, "Then wait for help, you'll be alright."

The man in the BMW was beyond help.  The cars still on the street vied for lane space to get around the wreckage.  Horns blared and voices cursed.  Joe yelled at two large men, "Help direct the traffic, get the looky-loos moving before they cause another accident!"  The men moved into the street, working together, they restarted the flow.

Joe heard the sirens close in.  He stopped once more at the BMW,  shook his head, then glanced at the sedan.  The boy of smart-phone and khakis was holding the old woman's hand, keeping her occupied.

On the sidewalk, a man in nurse's scrubs was talking to the woman on the ground in Spanish.   The blue haired girl continued to cuddle the toddler, who was enamored of her nose ring and several necklaces.

Lunch forgotten, the pedestrians became minor heroes.  They'd have pride in remembering their quick responses.  

As the emergency vehicles arrived, Joe backed to the bench.  He picked up the orange and put it in his pocket.  Sliding onto the seat, he retrieved his bagged bottle and melted back into the corner.  His grubby fingers began tapping the rhythm. Summoning the melody that would block the sirens and loud voices, that would return to him his invisibility.   

Needle Shy

Trifecta: Week Sixty-Nine

Congrats to this weekends winners!
This week's word is:
INFECT
1: to contaminate with a disease-producing substance or agent (as bacteria)
2a : to communicate a pathogen or a disease to
  b : of a pathogenic organism : to invade (an individual or organ) usually by penetration
  c : of a computer virus : to become transmitted and copied to (as a computer)
3a : contaminate, corrupt <the inflated writing that infects such stories>  
  b : to work upon or seize upon so as to induce sympathy, belief, or support <trying to infect their salespeople with their enthusiasm>




"You'll feel a little stick." The tech smiled as she eased the needle into the exposed vein in Ben's arm.

"Nah.  Didn't feel a thing." Ben watched the vial fill.  Bright red, and thicker than he'd thought it would be. The tech, her badge proclaimed her Mandy, changed vials twice.  

Ben frowned at the tray holding the tubes, two full, several more empty. "Why do y'all take so much?"

"Different tests, its easier to have multiples than to pass one tube all over the lab." Mandy smiled again as she swapped vials once more, "It's not so much.  You have plenty."

Ben wasn't so sure. Mandy's smiles, meant to put him at at ease, were beginning to infect him with apprehension. "I'm startin' to feel woozy.  You done yet?"

"Just a few more, hon. You don't want us to miss anything important."  She flashed her teeth again.  "There!  Last one."  She thumbed a cotton ball over the needle mark and strapped it down with tape.  "You wait here while I run these down to the lab. I can grab you a candy bar if you want."  

"No, that's okay. I need to go, got stuff to do."  Ben tried to rise, but Mandy pushed him firmly back into the chair. "You just sit there and catch your breath. 

         ********

Mandy locked the door behind her, then hustled to the lab. The one man waiting was no technician.

"Another vamp trying to pass. He was pretty depleted when I left," she said.  Laying the tray in front of him, she counted the vials.  "Oh, hell!  There's one missing, he must've nabbed one!"

Together, they ran back to the room.  The door was thrown from its frame and Ben was nowhere to be seen. 

"I'll get security, yelled the non-tech as he ran back up the hall.

He'd disappeared around the corner when the cold hand covered Mandy's no longer smiling mouth.

"You'll feel a little stick," Ben whispered in her ear.

The Jog

 100 words inspired by the song , I Won’t Back Down, by Tom Petty and Deb.

Mary and Duke are old friends, you can read more about them at  Vigil and Each Alone and New Beginning


He'd lagged behind, sniffing a tree trunk, investigating the innards of a shrub.  The sound of rushing feet attracted his attention.

He watched with mild interest as the strange man knocked her down.  Head cocked and tail wagging, he tried to grasp this new game. Until he caught the scent of her fear.

 Instinct launched him across the grass to the struggling bodies.  his teeth grasped the male's arm and pulled.  The man screamed and swung at his head. He didn't back down. Another lunge and deep growl convinced the man to leave.

 "Good Duke!" Mary sobbed into his fur. 

Out of the Woods

this was more fun! The assignment: you will be presented with the opening sentence of a famous (or not so famous) book. You are to write a story using the same first sentence; 

Dodie Smith’s “I Capture the Castle” whose opening sentence is:

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink because it’s the only place that’s safe. I don’t know what the little bastards are, but they're mean and there’s a lot of them.

They came from the woods. I suppose it’s my own fault, sort of. Something was getting into the trash cans, so I put out live traps. Figured I’d catch ‘coons or 'possums raiding the garbage. Boy, was I wrong!

I went out the next morning and there was one of those little buggers in the trap. Snarling and glaring with pure hate. It was only about eight or nine inches tall, slick gray hide mottled with ugly purple. And teeth, it had nasty, yellow, pointy teeth. Lots of ‘em. Along with nasty, black claws. I may have screamed.

So I got a shovel out of the shed, prepared to beat the shit out of it. Of course, I couldn’t do that with the cage closed, and I wasn't about to open it. So I got the garden hose, prepared to drown the critter.

It didn’t drown. I hit it with the water and it screeched an awful snarly screech. Then it shriveled up like a raisin and fell into pieces. I may have screamed again.

But at least it was gone and my garbage was safe.

Hah!

I was fixing my supper when I heard the trash can lid hit the ground. “Damn,” I thought, “ there can’t be another one.”

But oh yeah, there was another one, or twelve or twenty. And they were pissed. It wasn’t just the trash they were after this time.

I went out yelling, intending to grab the hose and “raisin” the whole bunch of ‘em. It’s my belief that’s what they were waiting for. I wasn’t two steps out the door before they were after me. I know I screamed then.

I hightailed it back inside, but them sonuvabitches is quick. They got inside with me.

I couldn’t get to the bathroom, so I ended up here in the sink. I’ve got the dish sprayer, and I “raisined” a couple. I managed to reach a grill fork and stabbed another two or three, they bleed foul smelling, yellow yuck, but that doesn’t seem to kill ‘em. Just slows ‘em down a bit.

The water is what gets ‘em. They’ve backed off for a while. I’m not sure where they went, but I’ll be damned if I’m getting out of the sink.

Shit, I think I hear ‘em coming back. They sound kinda gleeful…

Beneath the Surface

 Jumping feet first into my first Trifextra Weekend Challenge



Upon digging through the shuffle of excuses for why not

Delving under the sludge of more important things to do

At the center lay the truth of inaction by procrastination

Fear of imperfection




The weekend challenge.  As you'll recall from your elementary science class days, the structure of the earth can be divided most simply into three sections: core, mantle, crust.  Here's a diagram.
Give us 33 words from it.  Interpret the prompt however you wish--literal, metaphorical, or somewhere in between

Image courtesy of Danilo Rizzuti / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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Time Gate

One of my writerly friends posted a picture of arbor, overgrown with vines.  This is the story that happened....

It was nearly dawn as Margy walked alone down the sidewalk. The path was uneven and empty but for the litter of earlier travelers. Her eyes watched her feet, but without seeing them. Her mind a confusing jumble of half formed thoughts and drug hazed images.

After too many losses too young, the embrace of narcotics became a siren call to her tired heart.

The figure behind her watched her stumble along. Her posture and inattention labeled her a target. The shuffling gait shouted to him, “None will miss this one. No one cares.”

Still, he was cautious, looking around for prospective witnesses. That caution was shattered by the careless kicking of a discarded soda can.

Through veil of drugs, Margy became aware of her stalker. Her body fought the drugged indifference of her mind as it struggled for self preservation.

Her feet quickened their unsteady pace, her eyes began to look for escape. They lit upon an overgrown garden in a long neglected urban park.

The arbor entrance was drenched in vines. The space beyond, a wilderness of wildflowers and high grass. In the slowly blossoming light, she could only hope for the cover of brush. She ducked through the arbor, her stalker just footsteps behind.

He stopped, confounded by her disappearance. The old lot was a tumble of weeds and trash cans. There was nowhere she could have have gone. No place to hide. Yet, gone she was.

Margy’s eyes adjusted to the brightening sky. The park was much larger than it had seemed from the street.

She cocked her head to listen, children, she could hear children laughing. As she ventured farther, she could see a playground.

A squeal of delight reached her. “Margy! Margy, over here! We’re so glad you made it!”

A smile flowed across her face, the first in years. As she started forward, she glanced at her feet. The pink lights of her favorite pony festooned sneakers flashed brightly with every step.