tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43344065751767455582024-03-05T11:03:54.727-08:00Andy's StoriesShort fiction by Andrea Marie BrokawAndora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.comBlogger94125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-10039800417416961842020-10-02T16:29:00.001-07:002020-10-02T16:29:33.307-07:00The Sorcerer Abides<p style="text-align: center;"> <img height="210" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/2CH-C_NwvPHyupN2-FYtBlrwMrOXpoNQdBnzdJWWyMfkcLzxzZ-1G351krD5djmzx8y14hq-x_HIiMDQdRoIdrkuLdq1q1HpbBr5xerg2tm_-yqJKUoYYy7OxfxBp1Od7qTVan3R=w320-h210" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;" width="320" /></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-a9350540-7fff-74bb-d691-7a574486acd2"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rhiannon was named for a Fleetwood Mac song her parents loved. As far as names from songs go, she had always thought it was a good one. There were certainly worse options. When her brother Bobbie McGee had complained about his name not being Bad, Bad Leroy Brown, or even Slim Shady, their mother had started singing </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Flash </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">by Queen. It had shut Bobbie up, and quick.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She wondered what her mom would sing if she were in the car right now. Rhiannon’s best guess was something from the song </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Horse with No Name</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by America, although it was just as likely to be the Eagle’s </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hotel California</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Or maybe it would be from some other hit song about traveling through a desert. The SUV’s stereo played the Green Day piece </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">American Idiot. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rhiannon hoped that wasn’t an omen.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Are you sure this is it?” Rhiannon asked as her husband stopped next a trailer that looked like it was even older than her namesake song. There were no roads anywhere near the thing and no tire treads to show how it had gotten to its current godforsaken spot in the absolute middle of nowhere.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Terrance pointed at the dash. “Those are the exact coordinates he gave us.” He shrugged and shut off the engine.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the backseat, Kelsa stirred and removed the earbuds she was wearing. “We’re off to see the wizard?” she asked as she turned off her Nintendo Switch.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah, baby, we’re here.” Her dad gave the thirteen-year-old a smile over his shoulder before taking off his seat belt and opening the door. A blast of furnace-hot air sliced through the air conditioned interior of their late model Jeep Cherokee. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As her family got out of th SUV, Rhiannon stared at what was fundamentally a tin can on wheels. It really wasn’t much larger than the Cherokee and the exterior was covered more in rust than paint. She wasn’t entirely sold on this being the place they were looking for. “It looks more like a meth lab than a magic lab,” she said as they approached.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Terrance raised a jet black eyebrow high enough it nearly touched his afro. “Which one of those do you have experience with?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well, neither, but I’ve watched both Breaking Bad and Harry Potter.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m pretty sure that The Grand High Sorceror doesn’t want to be compared to anyone in children’s fiction.” Terrance paused. “Or to drug manufacturers.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“On the contrary,” came a voice from inside the trailer. “There is very little difference between a potion and a street drug. It all comes down to mixing unregulated ingredients for a desired effect that the government may not approve of.” The door opened to reveal a man in a long, tattered bathrobe that may once have been white but which was now as beige as the sands around them. He had a long beard that flowed in shades of aqua and teal, a bald head, and eyebrows that closely resembled inchworms in both color and texture. “As for Harry Potter… I’ve always seen myself as more of a Hermione, without the misfortune of having been written by a transphobe. If you need to be told that transwomen are women, then you need to get the hell off my property.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The visitors didn’t argue. Even if they had been inclined to disagree, they would have had too much sense to give voice to that inclination. They were here to remove a curse, not to get a new one inflicted upon them.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hello,” said Terrance. “Are you Carlton May? We spoke on the phone. I’m Terrance Joiner.” He tried to take a step forward, but found himself held back by Kelsa. Her hand had whipped out to grab her dad’s arm the second he tried to move.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The teen stood staring around her in wonder. “Well, Cohaagen, I have to hand it to you. It's the best mind-fuck yet.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The man with the colorful beard laughed. “I don’t know who Cohaagen is, and you seem a bit young to be cursing like that, but thank you.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It’s a movie quote,” said Rhiannon. “Although I don’t know what from.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Total Recall</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">,” Terrance offered. “Which is sort of funny because she totally recalls lines from every film she’s ever seen. She was less than three months old when she saw that one.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The bearded man grunted. “Is that so? Well, I’ll drop the illusion for you folks anyway.” He waved his hand and suddenly they were all standing in front of a Persian-style palace on an oasis. Still dressed in a house robe but now in a less ratty-looking one, he crossed the distance between himself and the Joiner family. Ignoring her parents, he held his hand out to Kelsa. “I am the The Grand High Sorceror Carlton. Not a very good name is it?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The girl shrugged, but shook his hand. It was the first time she’d ever been offered someone’s hand to shake and she smiled to be treated thusly, like she was equal to the older people around her. She couldn’t think of a suitable quote though. A tingle traveled up her arm, making her laugh.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Grand High Sorceror Carlton smiled. “You have magic. I thought as much.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rhiannon cleared her throat. “She has a curse, Grand High Sorceror. That’s why we’re here.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh, I’m sure she does.” He grinned and said, “Call me Carlton,” before waving the group to his front door. “Those with magic attract magic. Sometimes it’s a blessing. Sometimes it isn’t.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We’re hoping you can remove it. Can you?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“The magic or the curse?” Carlton kept walking after they were all in the house, leading the way into a sitting room large enough for half a town to fit into. “The answer is different. Magic, no. Curse, absolutely.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kelsa’s parents exchanged a look and Terrance cleared he throat. “Um… You said she attracts magic. If we remove this curse, could she attract a new one?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Certainly. An argument could be made for keeping this one if it’s one she can live with.” Carlton sprawled into a chair, landing with his legs wide and his arms spread out. His visitors were relieved to see the plaid lounge pants under his robe. He looked at Kelsa, the mirth fading from his expression. “Do you truly want this curse gone?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“The truth?” said Kelsa. “You can’t handle the truth.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A Few Good Men.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kelsa nodded. “The Dude abides.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Big Lebowski</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> reference made Carlton laugh again. “The Dude has long been a role model of mine. I get the impression you can only speak in movie quotes?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The girl nodded. “Yes.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes?” repeated Carlton. “So the quote doesn’t have to be recognizable, just have occurred in a film?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It’s an inherited curse,” Rhiannon said. “Skipped a generation and altered itself some. My mother can only speak in hit song lyrics. My daughter can only quote blockbuster movies.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Sit,” Carlton urged, indicating a long and ornate sofa that seemed like it would belong somewhere like Versaille under the rear ends of French aristocrats. “But your mother doesn’t want her curse lifted?” he asks as the family sat.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rhiannon shrugged. “She’s kind of used to it. It happened before I was born. And she’s a painter, so people aren’t too surprised to find out she’s eccentric. But Kelsa… We have to homeschool her. We tried sign language and pretending she’s mute, but she can’t sign except in quotes either. She can write, but try explaining why her communication is so stunted when the general public refuses to admit magic exists. We’d like to send her to high school next year, but… Not like this.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I can see why that might be limiting.” Carlton drew a deep breath. “So… I have the items on hand to remove the curse today, if you’re willing to pay the price.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Neither parent was dimwitted enough to say, “Anything!” but they both nodded and waited to be told what the price was.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Or…” Carlton kept his gaze solely on Kelsa. “I can replace it with something else.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Terrance nodded. “A blessing?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes. But blessings don’t come cheap.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A blanket of tension fell on the gathering. No one wanted to ask for details.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Gee, Otter, thanks. What do I have to do?” whispered Kelsa.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Animal House.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” Carlton grinned. “I think we would get along, Kelsa. And I find myself in need of an apprentice.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No,” said Rhiannon, not even pausing to think about it. “We’re not giving you our daughter.” She stood up and even took a step toward the door before realize no one else had risen. “Terrance? We are not giving him Kelsa. She can live with this. We’ll tell the school she has autism or something.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Terrance didn’t look at his wife or his daughter, instead studying the sorcerer. “I’m not agreeing. But what, exactly, would Kelsa becoming your apprentice mean?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You say she’s already homeschooling. She’d just need to add a few extra subjects. She can even stay with you while she does the early work. And you can stop worrying about the cost of college or what she’ll say at her entrance interviews or how to convince experts that someone who is clearly not on the spectrum has autism. By the time she’s eighteen, she’ll be ready to study magic full-time with me. Thanks to a spell I really should have been too smart to cast, I know for a fact that I will die in exactly twenty three years, five months, and six days. At that point, she will inherit my position, my wealth, and my vast network of contacts.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You could have chosen anyone. Why me?” Kelsa asked.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Carlton’s eyebrows drew together. “From the sound of it, I think that one’s from a romance. You should avoid that. I am not your love interest. What I am is an old man who wants to pass his knowledge on to someone. And what you are is one of maybe a half dozen people on the planet with enough innate magical ability to do something with it.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rhiannon stiffened. “Why are we here?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Everyone looked at her. Carlton smiled. “You want a curse lifted from your daughter.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Right.” The word snapped out, sharp and cutting. “And we just happened to find someone who could send us to you at a time when you are looking for an incredibly rare talent my child just happens to have?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was Carlton’s turn to try quoting something. “There’s a fine line between coincidence and fate. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Mummy Returns.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rhiannon wasn’t buying it. “Bullshit.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Alright, fine.” Carlton chuckled. “I may have had a few friends looking out for cursed children. Children not because I’m a creep or a pedophile, but because younger minds take better to magic than those that are already set in their views of reality. If it would make you feel better, both you and your husband are welcome to move in with Kelsa when she reaches the level where she needs to stay here.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kelsa’s mother was still shaking her head, but Kelsa spoke up. “You take the blue pill, the story ends.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Indeed,” said Carlton. “Take the red one, stay in Wonderland, and have a real story to tell. But if you go home and I find another apprentice… You could still pay me to remove the curse and maybe whatever replaces it will be fine. But she goes on living in the Matrix and loses the chance to change the world.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Please,” said Kelsa.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some of the resistance flew out of Rhiannon, but this was her daughter’s life they were discussing. “We’re going to have to talk about it.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Naturally.” Carlton got out of the chair and started toward the door. “The offer stands until the full moon. That’s in six days. I’ll either see you then, or I assume I’ll never see you again at all.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The family left, but everyone involved knew they’d be back.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1100/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>The above image is <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">“My Home in Joshua Tree” by Heather Elizabeth. You can find this and other works by the artist at </span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">http://whiskeyandmagnolias.com/</span></span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><br /></span>Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-62654324949599565072020-09-23T15:58:00.000-07:002020-09-23T15:58:57.722-07:00Lion In Plaid<p style="text-align: center;"> <img height="246" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d9YPDRunK1gXAiZEMfTehR_IrYJTr3ONesCod0y0y7-htYz_AH9_Uh3NA-ar8dh-aiDXpl46h6ns8mxVUldtvFiZYq6GuDXfXphj6bte9FzR4y_DrGHm-p3uY8oEtv8SYUqZdM7-=w320-h246" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;" width="320" /></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-9e24bc00-7fff-1272-8f6d-2cc3d6aa191a"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mina studied the artwork hanging at the foot of her bed. A line of pre-evolved wild animals and birds sat on the back of a wild-bear, appearing to ride it. “Daddy? Why is the blue bird on the wild-bear’s head?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“She’s giving the wild-bear directions.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh.” Mina thought for a second, then asked, “Why is the wild-mouse sitting in front of the owl? Isn’t he worried about getting eaten?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No. That would violate the wild-bear’s Terms of Service.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What are Terms of Service?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It’s an agreement between the user and the service provider. In this case, in order to ride the Wild-Bear Bus, you have to agree not to eat any of the other passengers.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Cool. Is that one of the Terms of Service on the school bus, too?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes.” Mina’s father smiled, showing just a hint of tooth. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No. I was just wondering if I’d be allowed to eat any of the other kids.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well, you’re not.” He tucked the sheet around his cub the way she liked it and gave her fur an affectionate ruffle. “And you tell a grownup if anyone tries to eat you.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mina laughed at the idea of someone eating her. Looking back at her preschool self the night before her senior year, she realized it had been incredibly naive to think that her status as a lion put her at the top of the school hierarchy just because wild-lions are at the top of the food chain. She’d be taking neither the Wild-Bear Bus nor the school bus tomorrow and would be riding her bike in. Although the bike had been a birthday present a month before, she was certain the scurry of squirrels that actually ruled her school would find several dozen faults in it, probably including an assertion that it was already out of fashion.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes Mina wondered about what Earth had been like before the rapid evolutions of the late human era, back when a group of extinct primates had somehow managed to be in charge of everything. When everyone was the same species, did everyone get along? Was high school somehow harmonious? Or were there still mean kids who didn’t literally eat the weak but metaphorically had them for lunch? Too little of their literature survived to know for sure.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She sighed as she laid out her uniform for the morning. There was undoubtedly a cool way of altering it this year that no one had told her yet. Last year it had been rips on the sleeves. The year before, it had been bleach stains on the skirts and trousers. Back in middle school, it had been the addition of pins. Mina and her best friend Yentl still wore a button on their headbands proclaiming them besties for life. Yentl’s had a lioness from an ancient book about a wild-lion who was also a king and Mina’s featured a wild-skunk in a flowerbed taken from an equally old artwork. Mina slid her pin into her new headband, the one in Senior Class Plaid that replaced her Junior Class Polkadots. She smiled faintly, reflecting on how much she’d missed Yentl over the summer and how awesome it would be to see her in the morning.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When Mina made it to school the next day she was at first relieved that she’d made it in early enough that none of the squirrels were there to spot her. Then she saw Yentl.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yentl stood near the entrance with a troop of lemurs with similar fur patterns to her own. She had ribbons dangling from her belt and her headband was devoid of pins. She saw Mina looking at her, glared, and turned away. She walked off as Mina approached.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In homeroom, Yentl still refused to speak to Mina or meet her eyes. She did, however, slide a note across the aisle.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mina opened the missive with shaking hands. “Our friendship was unnatural,” it said. “Herbivores and carnivores shouldn’t hang out together. You should go talk to the hyenas or something.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shaking her head, Mina took out a pen to scrawl out, “You can’t mean that. We’re not wild animals! We’re people!”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yentl didn’t write back.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I don’t even eat meat! I only eat synth! You know that!” Mina tried again, this time speaking in a hushed tone designed to carry to her neighbor and no further.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This time Yentl took pity. “It’s not about what you eat, Meens,” she whispered. “It’s about nature. And we’re only friends because we sit next to each other in home room, which we only do because we’re sorted by alphabet. If I had a different last name, we never would have spoke. And that would have been better for both of us.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No, it wouldn’t!”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few heads turned because Mina had said that last bit much louder than she’d meant to.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yentl gave her oldest friend a gentle look. “We’re going to different colleges anyway. Let me have a decent senior year instead of being a freak for my entire high school career.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The skunk waltzed to the front of the room to talk to the teacher, who nodded and directed one of the front row students to move to Yentl’s old seat under the premise of Yentl’s tablet having poor reception in the back of the room. It wasn’t a great excuse; everyone was issued the same type of tablet and the coverage was universally good throughout the school.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A fellow lion named Deshaun slid into the recently vacated spot, adjusting the seat to accommodate his taller size. “Been there, done that,” he whispered to Mina. “It sucks.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mina’s thoughts were reeling enough that it took her a while to remember what Deshaun was talking about. He dated a deer sophomore year, until she dumped him for “aggressive potential” even though he was the chillest and most mellow person in their class and had never so much as bared his teeth at her. “Yeah,” she said as he rummaged through his bag for something.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A moment later, Deshaun held out a ribbon to her. It said, “Preds for Peace” on it, advertising the school club he was president of. “Come to our meeting today. Three o’clock in O’Kent’s room.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Although she’d been somewhat derisive about the group before, calling them hippies and accusing them of spending more time smoking weed than actually promoting coexistence, Mina took the ribbon and tied it to her belt. “Yeah. I’ll try.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“And…” Deshaun paused for a deep breath before saying in a rushed jumble, “Feel free to eat lunch at my table if you want.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The offer made Mina want to cry all the more, but she nodded. There was no doubt the day was going to suck. She reached up and took the pin off her headband, not caring if it left a hole. It was appropriate for it to leave hole to match the hole in her heart.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hole in her heart? She drew herself up straighter. That was not the kind of thought Mina Saint Clair was going to have.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hey, Deshaun?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The male leaned toward her with poorly contained eagerness. “Yeah?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mina pointed at Deshaun’s belt, which had about two dozen ribbons tied to it. “Think you could spare a couple of those?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He gave her the careful large carnivore smile, the one that managed to cover his teeth so as not to alarm smaller people. “Sure thing. Although in some cultures, I think that would mean we’re married.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Taking the clump of shiny strands he handed her, Mina smiled back with a less careful smile, knowing Deshaun could handle her teeth. “It’s cool. Giving them back tomorrow will make us divorced.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Deshaun snorted out a laugh. “As long as no one owes alimony, I’m down with that.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the front row, Yentl turned to look at her old seat with a frown. Mina stopped smiling, but didn’t stop showing her teeth.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Quickly, Yentl turned back to the front, obviously spooked. It made Mina feel a little bad, but not bad enough that the more aggressive side of her mind didn’t snarl, “You shouldn’t have provoked a carnivore if you didn’t want to get eaten.” She gasped at the thought, took a breath through her noise, and said out loud, “Yeah, I’ll definitely be at the Preds for Peace meeting this afternoon.”</span></p><br /><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="border: none; display: inline-block; height: 72px; overflow: hidden; width: 320px;"><img height="72" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/D8w_bm9LhuKsKHOQaiiOBL4oE9tJRoIY7EOpreFy_rpF-gGF_-9q3yTyd3bI_hPobhQqq-W_6zfHlFtOkFARW8dHqMMPxOh9bH8mtn7y2acG_atHx5FM0SC-uBiOFS84J-5Lb-8q" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="320" /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The image above is "Traveling with Friends" by Andrea Doss. You can buy this charming piece at </span><a href="https://www.ugallery.com/art/acrylic-painting-traveling-with-friends" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">UGallery</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. It was offered as a prompt on my </span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/4334406575176745558/6265432494959956507#" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wording Wednesday Project.</span></a></p><br /></span>Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-27683093299573955092020-09-13T14:36:00.003-07:002020-09-23T15:58:48.001-07:00Who Says Camels Don't Ski?<p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"></p><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpXYiIbCW9G40KjZJuMhxwHNa1hua6lJ6z3cMkRjGEpQWAiqCaLM34a0tzoM2_thHTKrFeTacgAc3PRRqz1yvKp5b8errKJGjW8Yu6jCjq6uoydkKottvh2533tnGjQnkxfA2x34Madv4/s2000/S5W2+Untitled+by+Missy+Dunaway.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="2000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpXYiIbCW9G40KjZJuMhxwHNa1hua6lJ6z3cMkRjGEpQWAiqCaLM34a0tzoM2_thHTKrFeTacgAc3PRRqz1yvKp5b8errKJGjW8Yu6jCjq6uoydkKottvh2533tnGjQnkxfA2x34Madv4/s320/S5W2+Untitled+by+Missy+Dunaway.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is said, at least by t-shirts sold outside Ski Dubai, that camels don’t ski. Josef al Shameel, a camel technically owned by a minor noble in the United Arab Emirates but granted the freedom to roam about the desert on account of how he freaked his owner out, could only read Arabic. As the shirts were generally written in English, he didn’t know that they said he shouldn’t do the thing depicted. All he knew was that he’d seen a human wearing a picture of what was clearly a camel on flat planks of wood going down what Josef took to be a sand dune. He’d seen that and thought to himself, “That is a thing I want to do.”</span></p><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the history of the Ski Dubai indoor ski area, no camel has ever shown up and asked for a lift ticket. Josef didn’t either, possibly because he didn’t know what snow is and possibly because when he tried to find someone to design camel-sized skis for him, the human’s first thought was to contact a film crew because he’d discovered a talking camel. Sharif the Engineer got on the phone to his cousin Mustafa the Film Student posthaste.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The crew arrived in the early hours of the morning. It was mid-January, which is also mid-ski season, although determining when ski season is in an area that only sees a scattering of snow every decade or so is a challenge. They found Josef sitting by the roadside waiting for them.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">After dispensing with greetings, during which the film crew professionals did their best not to blurt of things like, “Holy hellfire, a talking camel!” they moved on to the matter most important to Josef. “Where are my sliding planks?”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mustafa, who most interested in fiction but willing to start out with a documentary, supplied him with a word in English. “Skis.” He then added in Arabic, “The planks are called skis. And they’re in the van.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">When the documentary hit the internet of the skiing and talking camel, the overwhelming response was for people to complain that they were sick of CGI animals. No matter how many interviews he gave, Mustafa was unable to convince the world that the whole thing hadn’t been faked. And Josef refused to give any more interviews after seeing some of the more hateful things being said about him on Twitter.</span></p><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The story ends well though. Mustafa landed directing job for an Arabic reboot of Lost in Space featuring a CGI camel in the place of the robot, one of several projects he would undertake for Netflix. And while Josef never did learn what snow was, he can still be found still getting his turns in on the dunes of the UAE. If you look closely in the distance while traveling through some of the less populated parts of that nation, you just might see him.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1100/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The above image is an untitled travel piece by Missy Dunaway. Dunaway is releasing her graphic travel diaries soon. Details can be found at <a href="http://www.missydunaway.com/travel-journal">http://www.missydunaway.com/travel-journal</a></i></span><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The prompt was offered by my Wording Wednesday Project.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Further inspiration came from my Ski Dubai "Camels Don't Ski" t-shirt. I would have taken a picture of it for you, but it appears to have gone into storage and I won't be able to get to it until next year sometime.</i></span><br /><p><br /></p></div>Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-36481429480292986942020-09-02T13:28:00.003-07:002020-09-02T13:28:33.315-07:00On a Hot Desert Highway<p> <img height="500" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/m4QsGL4mwewoR2052ZCGaavYYWwWjuexvD3zrscFplbZxLFCuwTq4fnKf11wKkX71N1gjBM5cVLeo4S3P0ZHbTepVwlBNcfRfuEHI395RLrOl0_CsG6wmM8VotFddz8TKP4Y3oUr=w499-h500" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;" width="499" /></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-e4f89895-7fff-f8d7-7c34-f9276c99b1eb"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Calico whistled her way down a remote roadway, her body more relaxed and at ease than it had been for decades. Unless she managed to catch a ride before the sun finished rising, by the end of her walk she’d go from a light bronze tinged brown to a deep mahogany. Her mother would have </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">tsked</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> had her mother been paying attention to anything that happened on Earth.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If not paying attention to Earth was something Calico could do, she’d have been doing it. It wasn’t though; not anymore. Thanks to a summoning ritual that the participants had foolishly video taped back when tapes were something humans recorded on. If they’d spent more time worrying about their protective sigils and less time worrying about their camera angles and lighting, they might still be alive.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How the man who had summoned her had obtained her true name, the one needed to drag her from the depths of Hell, she’d yet to ascertain. If she ever figured that out, she’d have to get back to killing. But all he’d known was that it was whispered to him by a voice in the dark. Completely useless information. He’d hoped confessing would save his life, but that just went to show how little he understood demons.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Calico had killed her summoner as his followers had fled. She got a few of the stragglers, but then had to spend decades tracking down not only the people who had been there but the people unfortunate enough to be told of the ritual’s success. Arguably, the people being told were unlikely to actually complete a ritual themselves since they were being told how easily one could go sideways, and none of them had been given her name, but it was easier just to kill them anyway. The tape had helped, as had Calico’s gift for forcing people to tell the truth, which worked even when they didn’t actively remember the details of the truth and were too scared to even try very hard as they were being stared down by an honest-to-Satan demon.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After asserting that the last of the summoners, a middle-aged gentleman who had promptly left the summoning ceremony to enter seminary and had spent the last thirty years trying to save souls, had told no one what he saw, Calico had calmly obliterated both the man and his car. There would be no evidence for mortal police to try to trace to her, just as there had been no evidence of any of the other slayings. The stereotype that demons are into overt violence and blood splatter is both harmful and inaccurate. The vast majority of hell’s children are happier not to see evidence of the icky things humans store inside themselves.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She strolled away from the death site, pulling her luggage behind her. After a few steps, she realized she didn’t need the video tape anymore. She tossed it to the side because she enjoyed the gesture, but then sent a pulse to disintegrate it where it landed. It simply wouldn’t do to have someone find it and possibly release it to the public. Sure the public would assume it was fiction of the found-footage genre, but why give them that much?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Calico shifted the song she whistled, replacing a tune she knew from her childhood to something by a human named Elvis. Within steps, she’d replaced whistling with words. “Viva Las Vegas....” Sounded like as good a destination as any.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Above image is</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> by Ric Nagualero and entitled "Wherever I May Roam." You can buy a copy at <a href="https://pixels.com/featured/wherever-i-may-roam-ric-nagualero.html" style="text-align: left;">https://pixels.com/featured/wherever-i-may-roam-ric-nagualero.html</a>.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">It was offered as prompt on my <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2020/01/s4w4-fun-with-dogs-and-ball.html">Wording Wednesday Project</a>.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-73412465160008147722020-03-31T16:54:00.003-07:002020-03-31T16:54:51.206-07:00The Comfort of Dragons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3UOhY0h5Xkb3jBUWxG2Yh9yfZphv2somm6pQ5oe_-hm7A3RO0vZQvevTct3IiN9lurq0IbH9gt7t7o89h9nw4cMbD9gO2NGC5UFq72I8fxV_Cpj4dPq3l7V69ljp5WoFH6StC2svEvec/s1600/s5w1+the_glass_sculptor_by_sandara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="1116" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3UOhY0h5Xkb3jBUWxG2Yh9yfZphv2somm6pQ5oe_-hm7A3RO0vZQvevTct3IiN9lurq0IbH9gt7t7o89h9nw4cMbD9gO2NGC5UFq72I8fxV_Cpj4dPq3l7V69ljp5WoFH6StC2svEvec/s320/s5w1+the_glass_sculptor_by_sandara.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Farla guided Shyler’s magic in the glass dragon the pair were crafting and smiled at how enthusiastic her partner was about this project. This was the thirteenth dragon and Shyler’s joy over creating smaller replicas of herself had yet to dim. Starting their next project might well lead to a pouting dragon, but creating this mobile for Farla’s niece had been a lot of fun.
<br />
<br />
After waiting for the crystalline dragon to cool, Farla tucked it carefully into a padded bag with two others and left the studio with Shyler perched proudly on her shoulder. The pair received varying reactions on their journey. Those of the neighborhood who knew them offered waves and cheerful greetings, but strangers shied away. A few people even crossed the street. It was hard to be sure if they were prejudiced against Farla’s elven ears or Shyler’s red hue. Elves tend to be stronger with magic than human channelers, which makes some humans nervous, while red dragons have a completely unearned reputation for aggression. And, of course, there had been a rising sentiment against using magic at all lately. <br />
<br />
People who knew Farla and Shyler recognized two of the most highly regarded artists in the nation and remembered how much of their income Farla spent on helping local families. The driver of the city bus the pair caught knew them well enough to shake his head at the couple who got up and moved to a further seat after she sat down near them. He made sure to use both her and Shyler’s names when wishing them well as they disembarked.
<br />
<br />
Upon reaching her sister’s house, Farla took a deep breath. Her sister was out of town, as was her husband and their six-year-old. The house was being watched by Farla’s brother-in-law’s sister. The sister, Elise, had soft grey eyes, warm brown hair, a gentle smile, a stately figure, and a deeply rooted sentiment against magic-channelers, all of which she’d inherited from her mother. Farla and Elise had known each other for close to a decade, and had a few interesting conversations early on. Then the conversations dried up, leaving only some glances that Farla struggled not to read much into from across rooms and dining tables. It had been two years since Elise did anything other than ignore Farla as much as possible.<br />
<br />
When Elise opened the door, Farla expected her to stand aside without a word before going to read in the study as she had done every other time. She did not expect Elise to follow her into Katchya’s room and watch her bring out the final three dragon sculptures.<br />
<br />
“These are the last ones?” Elise whispered, sounding scared. Her gaze was locked on the floor tiles beneath her feet.<br />
<br />
“Yep.” Farla put extra pep into her voice, trying to pretend that she wasn’t unsettled by the change in routine. Shyler flew up to sit atop a bookshelf along with an assortment of plush animals but watched Elise with open distrust. “Once I attach them, I can hoist this baby up and it’ll be all ready to surprise the birthday girl when she gets home next week.”
<br />
<br />
Elise’s eyes moved to the ceiling, where the hook for the mobile was already installed. “I wonder how long it will take her to notice.”
<br />
<br />
The thought of their niece entering the room and going about her normal business before suddenly going, “When did that get there?” made Farla chuckle. “She’ll either see it immediately, or not until she gets into bed.”<br />
<br />
“Agreed.” As though mentioning the bed had reminded Elise it existed, she sat down on it as she watched Farla deftly attach the new dragons. Each of the glass reptiles was a different color, which would work perfectly since Katchya’s room already looked like a rainbow had exploded across it. “Um…” Elise said after several minutes. “I don’t want to sound rude. But… Are they enchanted?”<br />
<br />
Farla’s fingers paused and she looked up. Her eyes met Elise’s and she processed what she saw there. The other woman was openly concerned. It would have made some channelers angry, but Farla figured it was a mixture of possessing ignorance and honestly caring about a little girl they both adored. She could never be angry at someone wanting to protect her beloved niece. “I couldn’t love Katchya more if she were my own daughter. The only magic in these guys was from their formation and a mild spell to make it harder to shatter them.”<br />
<br />
Elise’s lips pressed together for a moment before she nodded. Then she licked them as Farla tried to think about something other than Elise’s lips.<br />
<br />
Farla went back to double-checking the attachments on the mobile, making extra certain that the metallic chains the dragons were to hang from were secure. Satisfied, she waved Shyler over. “Time to get this up!”<br />
<br />
“Wait!” Elise sprang to her feet.<br />
<br />
Shyler hissed at the sudden sound and flew to hide behind a curtain. Elise stared at the lump the dragon formed behind the curtain fabric as Farla waited for an explanation. Eventually, she gave up on that and said, a little testily, “I already told you I didn’t cast any big scary spells on it.”<br />
<br />
“Oh.” Elise blinked a few times before meeting Farla’s gaze. Her eyes dipped as though she was cowed by what she saw. “That’s not what I meant. I meant to say, please hold on for a moment because I wanted to ask if you could add an extra enchantment.”<br />
<br />
Her head tilted as Farla studied the other woman. “I thought you hated magic.”<br />
<br />
“No… Not really.” A hint of tears clouded Elise’s eyes as she continued to study the floor. “That’s… I was raised that way. And my husband, he feels that way…” Her voice trembled as she spoke, but when she looked up her eyes were filled with anger. “But I’m sick of shutting up and ignoring my own opinions just because he ignores them. I’m leaving him. Or I want to. But when I told him that I wasn’t going to come back from this trip, he threatened Katchya.”<br />
<br />
As Elise crumbled, collapsing onto the mattress and burying her face in her hands, Farla breathed in and tried to still a growing rage. The bed creaked as she sat and put a tentative arm around Elise. “Have you told Ethaniel?”<br />
<br />
“Do you think I told Ethaniel?” Elise asked with a bitter laugh. “Is he on holiday with Katchya and Yvonne or in jail for murdering his brother-in-law?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, alright, I see your point.” Farla’s hand rubbed against Elise’s shoulder in a way she hoped was comforting as her anger turned to resolve and her thoughts shifted to planning. Shylar, reading the change in her partner’s emotions, emerged from the curtain at ground level and took a few hesitant steps towards the pair of elves. She stopped a ways shy of them and watched closely as she sent a sense of support to her partner. “I can enchant the mobile easily enough. But I think maybe you need something too. And we’ll need to put a charm on Katchya to protect her when she’s not in her room. Everyone already knows I made her the mobile, so we’ll need a piece of jewelry we can say is from you.”<br />
<br />
Elise nodded. Her expression was numb and her voice toneless as she answered, “Of course. Just tell me what to buy.”<br />
<br />
“I have some rainbow stone back at my place. It’s good for holding enchantments. Especially if you wrap it in gold. I have a little bit of that too. So we just need a chain.”
<br />
<br />
“Okay.”<br />
<br />
Farla’s chest felt tight as she gave Elise a squeeze and stood up. “You don’t have to stay for this part if you don’t want to.”<br />
<br />
Elise looked up slowly. “I want to stay if that’s alright. I’m curious.”
<br />
<br />
Farla quirked her eyebrows. “So you really don’t think you’ll be damned by being around someone misusing God’s power?”<br />
<br />
“No.” Elise shook her head and let out a soft sigh. “You couldn’t do evil if you tried, Farla. You’re the kindest, most godly person I know.”<br />
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Her lips parted as Farla replayed the words in her head. She had no idea how to respond to them.
<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry I let you think I hated you,” Elise went on. “I… I just couldn’t let Aris know I didn’t. If he had any idea how I actually feel about you… He wouldn’t handle it well.”<br />
<br />
“How you actually feel?”<br />
<br />
The softest of smiles graced Elise’s face. “Don’t get distracted. I’ll tell you all about it after we make sure the niblet’s safe.”<br />
<br />
“Okay,” Farla all but squeaked. Could Elise be saying what Farla so desperately wanted her to be saying? No… Probably not. She probably just meant she wanted to be friends, right? Farla told herself not to let her hopes get too high and that now wasn’t the time for fantasies.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipB1Dyc63W580tpAqcZES28YB6hsXandaVzc2cdTDY_qgBkJy-dTj-n7HuUwBkk3EXkBfDLDlnZy5j2VScNVNsL7ANiOy7Ia2VTCpldN8Ay8ueRzsePfagEyqj24YZYHRsSLmlGLIOxHo/s1600/PinClipart.com_tribal-clipart_364156.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="792" height="110" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipB1Dyc63W580tpAqcZES28YB6hsXandaVzc2cdTDY_qgBkJy-dTj-n7HuUwBkk3EXkBfDLDlnZy5j2VScNVNsL7ANiOy7Ia2VTCpldN8Ay8ueRzsePfagEyqj24YZYHRsSLmlGLIOxHo/s200/PinClipart.com_tribal-clipart_364156.png" width="200" /></a></div>
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Early the next week, Katchya ran into her room and spotted the change right away. “Everybody!” she yelled. “There are dragons in my room!”<br />
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Laughing, the adults walked down the hall to admire the project. Her mom and dad looked up, making sounds of astonishment while her aunts smiled at each other.
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Katchya put a hand on her hip. “Was this you, Aunt Farla?”<br />
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“Why would you think that?” Farla asked with a grin. On her shoulder, Shyler clicked merrily in the dragon equivalent of laughter.<br />
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“It was,” Katchya said to the others before running back to stand under the mobile. She lay on the floor so she could get a better view. “They’re so pretty.”
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“So you like dragons?” Elise asked in a teasing voice. “I didn’t know that, Niblet.”<br />
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“Everyone knows that,” Katchya said.<br />
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“Okay, fine. I knew. That’s probably why I bought this.”<br />
<br />
“Bought what?” Katchya bounced up again and looked eagerly at the package her other aunt held out to her. She grabbed the present and ripped the paper off it with excited efficiency. More gently, she took the lid from the box thus revealed. Her eyes went wide at the sight of a gold dragon clutching a rainbow-colored crystal to its chest. She squealed. “I love it!”<br />
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“Good,” said Elise. “I never want to see you without it.”<br />
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“You only see me on holidays,” Katchya said. “But I’ll wear it everyday.”<br />
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“Alright.” Elise smiled as Yvonne helped her daughter secure the clasp of the new necklace. “You’ll be seeing me more often than that from now on though.”
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Ethaniel gave his sister a curious look. “She will?”
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“Yeah.” Elise drew a deep breath. “I’m divorcing Astir.”<br />
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Everyone paused for a moment, then Yvonne blurted, “Thank God,” as Ethaniel said, “About time.”<br />
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“And…” Elise reached out for Farla’s hand. “And I’m moving in with Farla.”<br />
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There was another pause, during which Yvonne and Ethaniel shared a smile.<br />
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“Thank God,” said Ethaniel.
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<br />
“About time,” Yvonne added.<br />
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“Awesome!” proclaimed Katchya. “This is the best birthday ever!”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Above image is by deviant art user Sandara. I urge you to check out her feed at <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/sandara">https://www.deviantart.com/sandara</a> and considering purchasing some of the works she has for sale. (A list which includes this imagine.)</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">It was offered as prompt on my <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2020/01/s4w4-fun-with-dogs-and-ball.html">Wording Wednesday Project</a></span></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-71297362177873933522020-03-25T15:47:00.000-07:002020-03-25T15:52:44.762-07:00Leaving the House During the End of the World As We Know It<div>
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The following isn't fiction. It's not even really narrative nonfiction. It's just a little essay about what I did last weekend and what I saw when I left my house during a pandemic. I'm writing it largely to get it out of my head, but feel free to read it anyway. :)</div>
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For background, I live in Western Washington State. You know, where the COVID-19 pandemic first set foot in the US. By Saturday morning our social gathering buildings (restaurants, pubs, theaters, etc) had been closed for five days. It felt like longer. We were still being told we could go outside, though, so long as we did it without getting within six feet of people we don't live with. This was one of the first warm sunny days of the year, which would normally mean people were pushing towards outdoor activities, and with everything indoors cancelled, I knew that push was going to be strong. </div>
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I left my house for the first time in weeks. (Months? Years? Or maybe only days. My perception of time flow was seriously off and had been since the COVID-19 virus made it my state.) The first time since before the social places closed, certainly. My companions both lived with me; it had been a while since I saw someone who didn't.</div>
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We got to the state highway that runs through our town at around nine in the morning. Traffic seemed normal. I was on my way to ski even thought the lifts weren't running, but what was everyone else doing? I had no idea.</div>
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We passed by a small stocked lake. Its parking lot was completely full and there were more boats on it than I'd ever witnesses before. I hoped everyone had kept their distance while waiting their turn for the single boat launch.</div>
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We made it to I-5. Traffic seemed a little light, but not alarmingly so. Until we got to Everett. Everett is normally where traffic starts to be headache inducing, but there were no more people there than there had been back before the interstate went from two lanes each way to four. In fact, it seemed like maybe there were fewer. Several cars passed us doing about 100mph like they thought traffic laws had been suspended, but we soon starting see speed patrols. The whole thing was rather surreal.</div>
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Driving along, you can clearly see several stores from the road. The sporting goods place was packed like it was Christmas. Home Depot looked pretty typical for mid-morning Saturday. And Walmart? I don't think I've ever seen a Walmart parking lot that empty, certainly not on a weekend. I wondered if this was a Washingtonians being all about outdoor activities thing or something happening nationally. I wondered how the people in the sporting goods store could possibly be keeping proper distance from one another.</div>
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The lack of traffic remained until I-90, where it went back to what I'd expect for the time of day on a Saturday. I assumed most of these people were going hiking and the overflowing parking lots I glimpsed from the interstate bore that up, as did the decrease in traffic by the summit of Snoqualmie Pass. I could only hope people were staying far enough apart near the trailheads.</div>
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<div>
At the Snoqualmie Ski Area, things were an odd level of active. There weren't nearly as many people as there would have been if the lifts were turning, but there were many more than tend to show up in the weeks after the lifts stop in a typical year. (The above photo is one I took before heading up the slope.) We certainly had no trouble staying far away from other groups while skiing.</div>
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I had expected to see many more people just playing in the snow than were actually there. I only saw a few families with sleds. Nearly everyone there was hiking or skinning up the slopes to ski or snowboard. This helped with the whole stay-far-from-each-other thing.</div>
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We drove by our land and observed that the parking lot at that ski base was much more full than the one at the base area we went to. Possibly because this is where the Nordic trails are, but also possibly because Hyak has some greens you can hike up and ski down blacks, so it's really the easiest area for touring or bootpacking. Again, people seemed to be getting out of their cars and spreading out, so it seemed that despite the number of cars around people were still doing a decent job of trying to prevent the spread of the virus.</div>
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Over the course of the day, I used three separate DOT bathrooms. Sitting in the car at the ones on I-5, we observed that most of the other people there looked old enough they might should be more worried about COVID-19 than they seemed to be. And they did not look like they were trying to do something outdoorsy. I don't know what they were doing. I stayed as far away from them as I could. At the stop on I-90, it seemed to be mostly other outdoorsy people, but I stayed away from them too, even when put in the odd position of having to wait for a sink even though there had been a ton of open stalls. I assume that, like me, other people are now spending much more time washing their hands than usual. I hadn't expected that to be one of the markers of the End of the World. No one ever washes their hands in zombie movies.<br />
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What I didn't all day see were airplanes. It was really weird. No planes, no chemtrails. The skies hadn't been so clear of traffic since September, 2001. I'm really not sure why. Maybe the recreational airports closed. Maybe very few people live with their usual copilots. I don't know.<br />
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We crossed a bridge on the way home. Typically, it has walkways on both sides of the vehicular traffic, but they've closed one of them for bridge maintenance. This meant that groups of people were shuffling by each other in a space that's maybe a meter wide. It's a long bridge, so there were each passing by several other groups doing this. I saw that and thought we needed to close the bridge to pedestrians ASAP. Because apparently people couldn't look at it and say, "Gee, maybe today isn't a good time to walk across this bridge." It's in the middle of nowhere, so it's not like they were actually traveling on foot; they were just being tourists.<br />
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When we got home, I learned that some of the larger and better known parks in the area had closed down their more popular access points because they were too crowded. I wasn't surprised.<br />
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That was three days ago. Since then my state governor has asked us to stay at home unless doing essential things. Exercise is considered essential, but I'm thinking I'm not going to be going skiing again for a while because even if I'm allowed to I can't really justify using the DOT restrooms. (And not using them isn't an option at the distance I currently live.) There are closer places to exercise. Granted, I'm allergic to what's outside my house right now, but c'est le pandemic, n'est ce pas?</div>
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Thanks for letting me process all that. I don't really have a decent diary at the moment. Next time I post it will be a story, with an actual plot and everything. Stay tuned!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQj0JNQsfGUkkwkxj4rvj5kzYakU8s0cVMX_ulnMRsBVb9YI6P2CD-2O4Ra47_6KSRn55zBhwIN7mrYvO-lB3Ao_dWKW1krzh2gsrTAMb5fNwOu5iHjs7QDkyuh92PT_MtxottAcWRLKU/s1600/skis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQj0JNQsfGUkkwkxj4rvj5kzYakU8s0cVMX_ulnMRsBVb9YI6P2CD-2O4Ra47_6KSRn55zBhwIN7mrYvO-lB3Ao_dWKW1krzh2gsrTAMb5fNwOu5iHjs7QDkyuh92PT_MtxottAcWRLKU/s320/skis.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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(Above: My skis looking happy. )</div>
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Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-10746131782305093372020-03-06T15:19:00.001-08:002020-03-06T15:40:08.312-08:00Into the Misty Dark<div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Note: This piece originally appeared on my LiveJournal way back in 2010.</span></i></div>
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The chair rushed up behind us, faster by far than the ones on the lift we came off of. My son faltered, thrown off by the speed. The attendant pressed the stop button. The men behind us groaned.<br />
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We sat on the chair, which stayed put well past the point I was embarrassed and the kid was bored. Slowly, it started up again.<br />
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My son tapped his ski poles against his legs, nervous or impatient, I couldn't tell which.<br />
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We climbed through the loose fog we were already used to from the last run. Up over the race course the skiers behind us were anxious to get back to. Up past the top of the lift I would have rather taken had it been running that night. Up into thicker fog.<br />
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The fog kept getting more dense. I could see the chair in front of us, but not past it.<br />
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"This is taking forever," my son said.<br />
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"Lift rides always seem too long in the fog. It's the lack of visibility.” But inside I was thinking he was right, that we had been on the lift too long. And the lift was so much faster than I'd expected... What if it was the wrong one? What if I was confusing it with a lift at one of the other ski areas and I'd just put us on something going too far up the mountain, something leading to runs we couldn't handle?<br />
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“It's spooky.”<br />
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I smiled and tried not to look worried. “Yeah, it is.”<br />
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It was getting spookier too. The higher we went, the less well-lit everything was. I had no idea where we were going. The slope under us could be anywhere, all I could see of it was a tiny sliver. It was steep, too steep. But wide. Maybe. It was supposed to be. We should be able to cut across rather than go straight down, giving us a harder run than the one we were bored with while still being well in Eric's comfort zone. If this was the right slope.<br />
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“Are you sure we're on the right lift?” Eric asked.<br />
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“Yes,” I lied. Not well from the look he gave me.<br />
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“Mom, is this the wrong lift?”<br />
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“I'm not sure.” I put an arm around his shoulders and pointed at the ground. “But see the way the slope goes across? There's nothing between here and the last slope we were on, so we can cut back no problem.”<br />
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“Okay...”<br />
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The fog grew heavier. I could barely make out the chair in front of me. Then we sailed past the last light. I touched my jacket, feeling the bump from the headlamp I'd taken from the car just in case. Still there. Good.<br />
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Finally, the end came into view and my son gave a cheerful, “Tips up!”<br />
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When we unloaded, there was a map board barely visible through the fog and dark. But when we skied up it it, we found the map itself was completely unreadable. Damn. I could read the signs pointing to different slopes, but none of the names meant anything to me. Double damn.<br />
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The racers swept past behind us. I watched where they went, knowing I didn't want to go that way. Far to the right of them was a welcome sign.<br />
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“Easiest way down,” I read, pointing out the sign to my son. If we were where we were supposed to be, the easiest way down was a very easy intermediate slope, more of an advanced beginner slope. If we weren't where we were supposed to be, and I honestly couldn't tell... Well, it couldn't be harder than the race course and we'd both done harder slopes than that, just not while people were racing and we couldn't see anything. “All we have to do is follow the signs until we can cut back to where we were.”<br />
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Ninety percent of the lift traffic went to the race course, so we were able to hobble down the easy way without worrying about other skiers at all. We skied into the light and I saw trees that I was almost sure were ones I knew. Almost. It really was hard to tell since I'd never been there in either fog or darkness before.<br />
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The fog got heavier, but we didn't panic. It was part of our adventure.<br />
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<i>The above story is a piece of narrative nonfiction about a dark and foggy night on a ski slope. It was ten years ago. The little kid with me, the one who was worried I'd gotten him onto a slope that was too hard, is now an adult and a professional ski instructor who can do that run backwards. Meanwhile, I've gotten older and less willing to try things in the dark due to failing vision. C'est le vie.</i></div>
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<i>The photograph was grabbed from a YouTube video collecting a series of night lift in the fog shots. (<a href="https://youtu.be/jxLYocI3ipY">https://youtu.be/jxLYocI3ipY</a>) It shows more visibility than we had, but it was the closest thing I could find in the time I gave myself to search.</i></div>
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Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-40833321058056257662020-02-25T13:24:00.000-08:002020-02-25T13:24:02.112-08:00The Ghost of the Claw Machine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There are a variety of ways in which people respond to being dead. Some take the news well and start new lives in the world of Shadow, happily continuing on as ghosts for years or even centuries. But others try to deny their deaths, attempt to act as though it never happened and they're still alive. The souls in this latter group will usually pick one place of importance and stay there doing whatever is logical in the spot, like the grandfather who continues to sit in his recliner napping all day or the frycook who keeps trying to flip burgers.
<br />
<br />
What every spirit who remains in Shadow has in common is that they possess a purpose for remaining. The guy sleeping in his chair? He's probably worried about his widow or their grandkids. The frycook? He's worried about that coworker he was crushing on, or maybe he wants revenge on the manager who made him work until closing and is the reason he crossed the street at 11:30 instead of 8:30, which is how he came to be killed by a drunk driver.
<br />
<br />
Mara Brisbane remained living-adjacent rather than moving on to the true afterlife because of one thing: a claw machine. Well, a claw machine and a mentaly unstable young man with a gun.
<br />
<br />
On the afternoon of June twelfth, 1987, a gunman entered the Midtown Mall Arcade. It was years before Americans would start thinking of mass public shootings as normal events, but despite the fact that he injured five people and killed one in an age where this didn't happen several times a week, the news was too busy talking about Ronald Regan telling Mikhail Gorbachev, "Tear down this wall!" as though the Soviet Premier might start taking direction from the President of the United States to fully cover it.
<br />
<br />
Mara knew her murderer from school, where they'd shared a trigonometry class. She wasn't the reason he was in a homicidal rage, though. That honor went to Brittany Smalls, who had not only turned him down for prom but made certain everyone knew how ludicrous it was that he'd thought he stood a chance of her going with him. Brittany frequented the arcade regularly, but wasn't there that day. Even in the realm of people willing to commit murder, most people would go home and come back later if the object oftheir plan wasn't there. Not this guy. In the absence of the brunette he wanted to shoot, he shot at every brunette he could spot in the time between drawing his weapon and being taken down by off-duty cop who had been ordering cookies nextdoor when he heard gunshots.
<br />
<br />
It would have upset Mara to be murdered no matter what, but what really upset her about the whole thing was that she was absolutely certain she was a second away from finally managing to snag the plush wolf in the claw machine bin.
<br />
<br />
The wolf was important. It was for her kid sister, who needed it to comfort her as she had surgery scheduled the next week. Annie loved wolves. And Mara loved Annie.<br />
<br />
That was over thirty years ago and Mara is still standing in front of the claw machine.
<br />
<br />
Over the years, she's developed the energy to work the machine's controls. That's how everyone knows the thing is haunted. She only uses it when the arcade is closed, but when she wins things, she leaves them where they fall. There hasn't been a wolf in there for years, you see. And she isn't interested in anything else.
<br />
<br />
I've pieced all this together over the last few weeks, through a series of conversations with Mara. It's only been a few months since I moved to this town and when my parents brought me into the arcade gushing about how they loved places like this "back in the day" I instantly spotted the teenaged girl in a short denim skirt, jean jacket, and high top sneakers. If I didn't have so much experience with ghosts, I would have thought she was being retro, but she's far from the first spirit I've come across. When I realized no one else seemed to see her, I was confident she was dead.
<br />
<br />
A couple named Jonesevich own the place and roll their eyes at the assertions of the place being haunted. Their daughter, Camille, though… She believes. And she helped me arrange for there to be a wolf in the claw machine. She also let me in after hours, which is why we're both walking up behind Mara as she concentrates on the machine.
<br />
<br />
"She's there, isn't she?" Camille whispers. She's shorter than I am, but her boobs are bigger and she's all-round prettier than I could ever hope to be. Her heart-shaped face is filled with awe and hope as it shines up at me from under a teal fedora, and her hands are grasped in front of her chest like she's about to break into prayer.<br />
<br />
"Yes," I confirm. "But sush, she's concentrating."<br />
<br />
Even though she knows Mara is there, Camille lets out a little gasp as the claw in the machine starts to move. It lowers, grabs a toy, and moves to drop the prize in the shoot to the collection bin.<br />
<br />
Mara breathes out. "Okay. I should be able to get the wolf now. Can you get that thing out of the way?"
<br />
<br />
"Sure." I move over to where I can bend and retrieve what turns out to be a really cute blue dragon. Personally, I'd rather have a dragon than a wolf, but I don't say anything.
<br />
<br />
Aware that Mara doesn't care about the dragon's fate, I take it to Camille. "She says to give you this thanks for all you've done."
<br />
<br />
"Oh!" Camille grabs the plushie and hugs it tightly. I feel a twinge of envy for the dragon. Camille is my age, my type, and openly bisexual judging by the blue, purple, and pink heart pin attached to her hat. I'm not silly enough to think that means I stand a chance with her, though.
<br />
<br />
We wait as Mara takes a few tries to grab the wolf. When we first met, I asked her how she could operate the arcade machines without using tokens. She'd shrugged and said that when she came to after being shot, they just worked for her without her knowing why. Her theory is that her energy is somehow tricking them. I don't have any better explanation.
<br />
<br />
Finally, the wolf drops into the prize box and Mara takes it out with a whoop. She doesn't manage to hold it long; manipulating our world takes a lot of energy and she would already have been tired from using the machine controls.
<br />
<br />
I pick the wolf up off the floor. It is pretty adorable, although I stand by my assertion that the dragon was the better prize.
<br />
<br />
"Did she move on?" Camille whispers.
<br />
<br />
"No. She's still here."<br />
<br />
Mara moves around, looking at as much of herself as possible. "Yeah, I kind of thought something would change."
<br />
<br />
"Maybe you need your sister to get the wolf," I say. Camille and I brought a box and we sit on the floor to put the wolf in it and seal it up. Annie's address, which I paid a service to get and hope is right, is already written on the shipping label and ready to go out first thing in the morning.
<br />
<br />
"Have you seen my sister?" Mara asks, standing over us.<br />
<br />
"Not in person," I admit. "I found her Instagram account, though."<br />
<br />
I open my Instagram app and put in Annie's username. A page full of pictures, mostly of two little girls and a Siberian Husky, pops up and stand to show it to Mara. "See? She's doing well. Those are your nieces. She never says their names, but their initials are MM and and SA."
<br />
<br />
"Mara Marie," Mara whispers. "My middle name is Marie. She named her daughter after me?"<br />
<br />
I shrug. "Maybe. Probably? I thought about asking, but was afraid I'd sound creepy."<br />
<br />
"And SA would be Sarah Anne. That was our grandmother's name, the one Annie was named for." Mara's eyes continue to focus on the screen. "Where do they live? Is that a beach?"
<br />
<br />
The picture she's pointing out does seem like a beach. "Her address is in Maine, so, I guess so."<br />
<br />
"Maine? That so far away… But she's okay, isn't she? Like really okay?"<br />
<br />
"I think so." It's hard to tell how someone is doing from an Instagram account, but she seems to have a nice balance of activities and interests.
<br />
<br />
Mara smiles. “That’s all I ever wanted. For her to be okay.”
<br />
<br />
Even as the words fade, Mara’s body starts to take on a transparency. Without further comment, but with a peaceful smile, she shimmers and is gone.
<br />
<br />
I stare at the spot Mara used to be in. I’ve never actually witnessed anyone moving on from Shadow before. “She left,” I whisper. “I think… I think she’s in heaven now. Or being reincarnated. Or, you know, whatever happens after Shadow.”
<br />
<br />
“Oh. So she just needed to know her kid sister's alright?” Camille looks where I am, although she never saw Mara in the first place. There’s a mist in her eyes. “That is so sweet.”
<br />
<br />
“It really is.” I bend over and pick up the box. “Think we should mail this anyway?”
<br />
<br />
Camille nods. “Absolutely.” She climbs to her feet. “And… Um… There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask, but it didn’t seem like right time before…”
<br />
<br />
My heart-rate picks up even as I tell myself she’s not about to ask me out. More likely she wants to know if she can learn to see ghosts too or something like that. “Okay. Go for it.”
<br />
<br />
“I…” She draws a shaky breath. “I was wondering…” Her eyes drop to the floor. “Would you maybe…” She brings her eyes back up, her expression saying it’s hard to look at me as she speaks. “Would you like to go out with me?”
<br />
<br />
I try not to stare. “Like on a date?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah… I mean… You do like girls, right?”<br />
<br />
I nod.<br />
<br />
“And I know it’s a stretch to think that maybe you’d like me specifically, but-”
<br />
<br />
“I do!” I interrupt. “I like you specifically. Very much so. I would totally have kept that dragon otherwise.”
<br />
<br />
She laughs, relief making her body loosen. “Okay. Good. You pick where. Anywhere that isn’t an arcade.”
<br />
<br />
I join the laughter. “That’s really limiting, but I’ll think of something.”
<br />
<br />
With the box tucked under my left arm, I wrap my right hand around Camille’s as we walk out into the deserted mall.
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The above image is Arcade by Kelsey Smith. You can find it an other works by the artist at <a href="https://www.inprnt.com/frames/amidstsilence/?__cf_chl_jschl_tk__=b5da84b05f7adba71f202711187b4186e5997564-1582665344-0-AUbFLr2w81us9kVVi8zVrGf304xOo-AQEVN40Wh8IIyvjWxrOs3bX85xP4El1XwzM69juj0BxRtA6t9s7Mn6KahJHNiHz6BcZEe_lwthM-pZHGqxs2aS07ngV2koKl4GAVn57v1OXg_cI0p9EP7d37N5zzW8YDPdPt9zgOQWzd-yhOCnwY2OIqSqKec2gpq4R_OvdtmP89z1eE-TiKe_-3QFwba-0loY10dpLRPIaoVkJjOZKwppecRRBPqlAiuqGMtJc6IgRjiCkqHKFBIpC_iq-8L-nkhjtQvAOGtyrrCV_k505gpD-fA20ZLTk6NokxwoyxXDbmJ8fnTgeOVbB_76HJT1htqx7d6r0nHrO_wj">INPRNT.com</a>.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">It was offered as a prompt for my <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2020/02/s4w6-fun-with-claw-machine.html">Wording Wednesday Project</a>.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">If you like ghosts, you might be interested in my novel I<b>'d Rather Not Be Dead.</b></span></i></div>
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifcrJh5Suz8RVs_QiBSzuGeMRffga4hkFoB3PI74PYjNnQfg0JBn9m1DlcZn_qDjR_xtRwMJ9biN7c-MdU5nn8i37eSyOIL8XrxjW0nl16Vx_lAHfJuNqgJTYO8YAfHZ3ba141T8OQvv4/s1600/IdRatherNotBeDead.png"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifcrJh5Suz8RVs_QiBSzuGeMRffga4hkFoB3PI74PYjNnQfg0JBn9m1DlcZn_qDjR_xtRwMJ9biN7c-MdU5nn8i37eSyOIL8XrxjW0nl16Vx_lAHfJuNqgJTYO8YAfHZ3ba141T8OQvv4/s1600/IdRatherNotBeDead.png" /></a></div>
<br />Drew McKinney never liked living in Pine Bridge, North Carolina, but she liked it a lot better than being dead there. No way does she want to haunt this stupid hick town for the rest of forever. She doesn't want to haunt anywhere if she can help it. The whole dying thing knocked Drew back in time several weeks, so she's got a shot at saving herself from Hell in Appalachia if she can figure out why she died. Unfortunately, not only is she clueless about what killed her but there's a soul-eating fog after her, the ruler of the ghost realm is interfering in her afterlife, and the only living person Drew can turn to for help is Cooper Finnegan, who is hands down her least favorite person on the planet.<br /><br />Available for <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Id-Rather-Not-Be-Dead-ebook/dp/B00ALGVX5E/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1508370090&sr=8-8&keywords=hedgie+press">Kindle</a> and other digital retailers or in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Id-Rather-Not-Be-Dead/dp/098470213X/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1508370090&sr=8-8">print</a>.<br />Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-17182375707736762792020-02-18T16:20:00.000-08:002020-02-18T16:20:00.888-08:00Eeshkik's Last Watch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9GFKlW7w-pBnYGgrK7nAX_JMzJ-hKEZ4Vn7kcEVQTE3HNHuAuAUf5vNQi9G1QOrujsfKDUmuwR3615UzuQgR7olYRkR7AB83ie4Sto0BJ8S0g2wwvvurAwMJ0lCiDVMqgFMfenllaEus/s1600/05+Alien+Poker+Poster+by+Unknown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="400" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9GFKlW7w-pBnYGgrK7nAX_JMzJ-hKEZ4Vn7kcEVQTE3HNHuAuAUf5vNQi9G1QOrujsfKDUmuwR3615UzuQgR7olYRkR7AB83ie4Sto0BJ8S0g2wwvvurAwMJ0lCiDVMqgFMfenllaEus/s320/05+Alien+Poker+Poster+by+Unknown.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
“They’re doing it again,” said Eeshkik. “The humans. You know, the ones we’re supposed to be watching. They’re launching something new. The North American ones.”<br />
<br />
The only crew member to so much as glance at her was Kakal, who was wearing a shirt that ironically featured the human letters ‘e’ and ‘t’. He gave her a stare with his huge black eyes and tapped the side of his pretty green head in the gesture their species uses to communicate, “So what?” No one else looked up from the game they were playing.
<br />
<br />
In the defense of the entire uncaring crew of The Muse of Stars, the game they were playing was one they’d picked up from the planet they orbited and had been tasked with studying. Also in defense of the crew, they were circling Earth waiting for the planet to settle down long enough to make first contact, and while they had only been doing this for half a year, their civilization had been doing it for centuries and the planet was pretty much as studied as it was going to get. In a few weeks, they’d get to go home and some new saps would be left watching the endless wars the local barbarians so loved to engage in. Still, Eeshkik was their captain, so she felt they really should pay at least a little bit of attention to her when she said stuff.<br />
<br />
“I’m captain here,” Eeshkik proclaimed. “You need to listen to me!”
<br />
<br />
Geklac met her gaze. “You’re only captain for another ten minutes. Then it’s Acklec’s turn.”<br />
<br />
“I’m aware of the rotation.” Eeshkik sniffed. “But I’m captain for now, and I need someone to write up this new satellite.” She paused for a minute. When no one volunteered, she said, “Geklac, get started.”
<br />
<br />
“But I’m winning!”<br />
<br />
“I don’t care.”<br />
<br />
“You’re not winning,” said Kakal. “I see your raise. Anyone else in?”<br />
<br />
The other two who had still been in the round nodded their heads to indicate they declined and quietly folded their cards. “Alright, then,” said Geesh, who had been dealing. “Show us what you have, boys.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, let’s see what you went all in with,” Kakal told Geklac.
<br />
<br />
Geklac did a little shimmy as he flipped his cards. “Full house. Three kings and two eights.”<br />
<br />
Eeshkik’s eyes widened in dismay on Geklac’s behalf. The kings were sitting in the middle of the table, on what was called the river, meaning everyone got to use them. Betting all of his chips on the hand had probably been a mistake. Sure enough, Kakal gave an amused huff and revealed his cards to show that he also had a full house, but his was kings and aces.<br />
<br />
The curse Geklac handed out doesn’t translate well into English as humans don’t have the body parts referenced, but if you can imagine the most disgusting thing someone could say about your mother’s nether regions, you’d be close.<br />
<br />
With a hum of annoyance, Geklac pushed back from the table, rose, and stormed off to find a computer to enter the data on Earth’s latest launch into. Eeshkik slid into his vacated seat, her eyes going to the chronometer. Eight minutes and she wouldn’t be captain anymore. She leaned back, putting her feet in Kakal’s lap. She’d hoped doing so would prompt her husband to massage her calves, but he instead tapped the table to prompt the next deal. Which was proper; personal relationships were expected to be ignored when one was serving as captain. Even if you were down to seven and a half minutes on the job.
<br />
<br />
Cards went out to everyone at the table, minus Eeshkik, because captains also don’t get to gamble with the crew. “Seven minutes…” Eeshkik muttered under her breath.<br />
<br />
Another two minutes passed, during which half the table folded and two new cards came out on the river. Then everyone flinched as the claxon started blaring.<br />
<br />
“Collision imminent!” screamed the computer.<br />
<br />
“What the Ghost?” Eeshkik exclaimed as she leapt up and rushed to the control room with the rest of the crew running behind her. “Geklac, report!”
<br />
<br />
“It’s coming straight at us!” Pointing at a screen, Geklac brought Eeshkik’s attention to the display that tracked all the crap the humans had littered their planet’s orbit with. One object was quickly approaching their ship. “How do they even know where we are?”<br />
<br />
“Doesn’t matter,” Eeshkik snapped. “Kakal, emergency procedure gamma!”<br />
<br />
“Gamma launching!” came the swift response. “Everyone hold on to something! In three... two... one...”<br />
<br />
Everyone who could grabbed hold of chairs or the handles spread around the compartment. Everyone else went flying as the ship lurched into motion.
<br />
<br />
“It’s following us!” reported Geklac. “And I don’t think we can outrun it without stardrive.”<br />
<br />
Sure enough, the display indicated that whatever weapon the humans had lobbed at The Muse of Stars had altered course to track with the ship. Which meant that the humans had developed the technology to overcome the jamming illusions all Kuykkan vessels put out when trying not to be seen by primitive civilizations. And had launched a weapon without so much as broadcasting a hello. Talk about rude.<br />
<br />
Eeshkik gurgled in exasperation. She still had four minutes left on her shift. “How much time do we have?”<br />
<br />
“About a minute. It’s still gaining.”<br />
<br />
Well, there was no helping it then. “Fine,” grumbled Eeshkik. Initiating stardrive inside a solar system would be unspeakably dimwitted; the odds of hitting an object before you see it are just too high in such a crowded place. Which meant they had to destroy the weapon despite the fact that this would confirm their presence. The humans had spotted them anyway. “Zap it.”<br />
<br />
“Zapping aye,” said Acklec. A few second later, he followed up with, “Target eliminated.”<br />
<br />
The crew cheered, but Eeshkik glowered at the chronometer. Still two minutes left on her shift as captain, which meant that the piles of paperwork required anytime the zapper was used were going to be her responsibility, as well as the nightmare task of writing a report trying to explain that humanity now posed a threat to anyone close to their planet.<br />
<br />
“Set a course to the other side of the astroid belt,” the captain said in a defeated voice before slinking off to her cabin as she griped internally about how if all of this had happened just five minutes later, it would have been Acklec’s problem and he would be the one spending the next several shifts dealing with bureaucracy. Some things really weren’t fair.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The above image is from a poster by an unknown artist. You can buy it on <a href="https://smile.amazon.com/Texas-Holdem-Motivational-Poster-Pictures/dp/B00O96Q9QA">Amazon</a>.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
It was offered as prompt on my <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2020/01/s4w4-fun-with-dogs-and-ball.html">Wording Wednesday Project</a></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-89412135406898701212020-02-04T15:46:00.002-08:002020-02-04T15:46:23.830-08:00The Queen's Holy Orb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7pVbKmNIukzehIisYlRUam5NFBZXfB-3DLbjOEC-56He1FI7Z8Qd0Qsixzqv6W-1JHKiVdMolchMU9pu2g1mmsWpfbbmtuUGSx_VMtYQUwKIS3lws0RhcWYYgSiAYq9IC7BPzc7taHM/s1600/04+Dogs+Playing+With+Ball+by+Alfred+de+Dreux+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="900" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7pVbKmNIukzehIisYlRUam5NFBZXfB-3DLbjOEC-56He1FI7Z8Qd0Qsixzqv6W-1JHKiVdMolchMU9pu2g1mmsWpfbbmtuUGSx_VMtYQUwKIS3lws0RhcWYYgSiAYq9IC7BPzc7taHM/s320/04+Dogs+Playing+With+Ball+by+Alfred+de+Dreux+.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
As the three gnomes sat in a tree, Minz, Moin, and Maleka felt rather overwhelmed and quite sorry for themselves.
<br />
<br />
“They just keep playing with it,” Minz moaned, her eyes on the pair of very large canines batting The Queen's Holy Orb around the clearing. The trio of gnomes were at their wits’ end. Clearly, they couldn’t just let the dogs continue to play with the religious artifact they’d been charged with carrying through the forest from its old home in Egdasmont to its new home in the recently built cathedral in Umnaspurt. But the dogs were massive, both taller than Maleka, who was herself much larger than Moin, who was in turn taller than Minz. And the dogs were obsessed with The Queen's Holy Orb, to the point of ignoring the similar sized ball the gnomes had already tried to distract them with. Although, on the plus side, they were also too obsessed with The Queen's Holy Orb to try to eat the gnomes, something the gnomes greatly appreciated.
<br />
<br />
“Hey, dogs!” yelled Maleka. “That belongs to the church! It was a gift from Queen Elspin!”
<br />
<br />
The dogs were not impressed. They didn’t so much as glance at Maleka as they wrestled each other for the honor of being closest to The Queen's Holy Orb.<br />
<br />
Moin leaned forward, balancing so that his arms rested on his legs as they dangled from the branch he sat upon. “There are two dogs and three of us. If two of us could each distract a dog, the third could grab The Queen's Holy Orb.”
<br />
<br />
“Sure,” agreed Minz. “But how would we do that?”
<br />
<br />
“We could jump on them.”
<br />
<br />
Minz and Maleka stared at their companion. “Jump on them?” Maleka repeated. “You mean after we ask them nicely to lay down and be still? Hey, dogs! My friend wants to jump on you! So if you could stop running around and lower yourself closer to the ground, that would be awesome!”
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<br />
No one was surprised when the dogs failed to comply, choosing instead to growl at each other as they tried to push The Queen's Holy Orb in different directions. The growling made Minz shiver. She’d had a bad experience with a Pomeranian as a child that had instilled a great distrust of all canines into her psyche. She’d been the first to climb the tree and was determined to be the last to leave it.
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<br />
“What if we hit them with something?” Moin said. “You know, knock them out? Don’t you always carry a pouch of sleep powder, Minz?”
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“I do,” the shortest gnome answered. “But I’d have to hit them right on the nose, which would be hard to do from up here. And there’s only enough for one of them.”
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Maleka made a thoughtful noise. “Okay. So we’d have to send someone down to hit one of them right in the face and then hope the dog doesn’t try to eat that person while waiting for the powder to kick in. But that would still leave one dog obsessed with The Queen's Holy Orb. If we assume we couldn’t successfully jump on him and steer him away, what could we do?”
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All three gnomes shook their heads, stumped.
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“Do we have any food?” Minz asked, remembering that dogs like food.
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Between them, they found a hard candy that had seen better days, a melted piece of chocolate, and a quarter of a donut that Moin had been saving for later. They tossed the donut and one of the dogs did actually notice it, but only for as long as it took to swallow the baked good in one gulp.
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<br />
“Well,” said Moin. “I think I would have been better off eating that myself.” And the others couldn’t argue otherwise.
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“Could we steal a dog whistle?” Maleka asked. “One of us could run far away and blow it, then the others could grab The Queen’s Holy Orb when the dogs ran to the whistle.”
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<br />
They all liked that idea, but no one had any leads as to where they could find a dog whistle.
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“We could pray?” Minz offered. “I mean it is a HOLY Orb, right? So maybe the gods would try to protect it? You know, if we told them a pair of dogs was playing with it.”
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The other two shrugged and they all bent their heads while Maleka addressed their deities. “Oh heavenly parents, ill has befallen the most sacred Orb of the Heavens. Please help us free The Queen’s Holy Orb from the beasts that have taken possession of it so that we may see it interred in the cathedral in Umnaspurt. Um… We offer you this piece of chocolate and hard candy in addition to our adoration as we pray that you will come to the aid of us, your unfortunate children. Thank you for listening. Amen.”
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“Amen,” the others chorased.
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<br />
Then they all looked around expectantly, their shoulders falling as no bolts of lightening struck the dogs. Moin sighed. “Maybe they didn’t hear us? Should we try again, but louder? Maybe if we all spoke at once?”
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<br />
Frustrated, Minz ripped a pinecone from the tree they sat in and lobbed it at one of the canines. It bounced off with no effect other than to make the dog let out a bark of annoyance. No one was surprised as throwing things at the dogs to get them to run away was the first thing the gnomes had tried.<br />
<br />
From somewhere behind the gnomes, a door opened. A human voice cried out, “Hestor! Brunhilda! Dinner!”
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<br />
The dogs’ heads snapped up. Before the woman had finished calling for them, they were sprinting toward her, The Queen’s Holy Orb completely forgotten.
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“Ah,” said Maleka. “I suppose the gods don’t work instantly.”
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<br />
The gnomes slid down the tree and the taller two picked up The Queen’s Holy Orb between them while Minz kept a lookout to make sure the dogs weren’t returning.<br />
<br />
When the trio finally made it to the cathedral in Umnaspurt, they handed The Queen’s Holy Orb over to the bishop and went straight to the pub, where they offered a toast to the gods but swore never to take another job from the church.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3j8BZP0RI5lhYCdBFFJn-EVLkBvn9BSJs1FOptgnYVmfjnIYqANHOD-5P3Ek9qUGR6iC1ZuhUJm4dAz22MmKBAecJjrVCG0S0LANpb5PRFpbJqaXd4GcZtCFAJMWAIPLfKBARS0XQwQI/s1600/1579392797376484-0.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3j8BZP0RI5lhYCdBFFJn-EVLkBvn9BSJs1FOptgnYVmfjnIYqANHOD-5P3Ek9qUGR6iC1ZuhUJm4dAz22MmKBAecJjrVCG0S0LANpb5PRFpbJqaXd4GcZtCFAJMWAIPLfKBARS0XQwQI/s320/1579392797376484-0.png" width="320" /></span></i></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The above image was painted by Alfred de Dreux. </span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">It was offered as prompt on my <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2020/01/s4w4-fun-with-dogs-and-ball.html">Wording Wednesday Project</a></span></i></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-17929785147084381032020-01-23T16:18:00.000-08:002020-01-23T16:18:18.054-08:00Roll for Initiative!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRdrAN4uTicULoeCjUp0RE7kmhZE3ZALw6_MF0QrxkclFqmO3VELpG-aEZU0hzl3DnPpfS-4JOg36Z7ktQLTguy1A0HnkWFq2ApVA-PJhlA0xilBQXQWg7h85ubtKfn5NMPFBm7MELZUA/s1600/03+Guy_Davis_Crypt_Beast_Body_full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRdrAN4uTicULoeCjUp0RE7kmhZE3ZALw6_MF0QrxkclFqmO3VELpG-aEZU0hzl3DnPpfS-4JOg36Z7ktQLTguy1A0HnkWFq2ApVA-PJhlA0xilBQXQWg7h85ubtKfn5NMPFBm7MELZUA/s320/03+Guy_Davis_Crypt_Beast_Body_full.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Jarreth gulped at the beast before him. He knew he shouldn’t have come this far into the caverns on his own, but it was no use berating himself over the choice now. He gripped his sword before him, settled into a wide stance, and stared directly up at the looming monster. It wasn’t that big. Merely twice his height. And it only had six arms. Or six legs? Jarreth couldn’t really tell. They seemed to all have hands on the end, but several were being used for standing on… And the creature’s skin probably wasn’t really made of stone or it wouldn’t be moving so easily, right?
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The monster smiled. With its huge, protruding teeth, its smile wasn’t exactly comforting to Jarreth.
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“Roll for initiative,” a voice called.
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“What?” Jarreth blurted, his eyes flicking to the ceiling the voice seemed to come from.
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The monster picked up one of the odd shaped rocks before him and gave it a toss. The rock had a lot of sides, each one with a number written on it. “Fifteen,” the creature said as the rock came to a rest. The monster then looked up at Jarreth like it expected him to do something interesting now.
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Jarreth shifted. His arms were getting tired already.
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The voice returned. “The human forfeits his right to roll. You go first, Hubert.”
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“The human did what?” the human asked, but everyone ignored him.
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“I swing my pitchfork in his direction,” the monster announced. He rolled the rock again. “Curses. Nat one.”
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The ceiling laughed. “Okay. You swing your pitchfork at the human invader, but you hit the ceiling by accident. A chunk of rock breaks off and falls on your head. Roll a D8 for damages.”
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“A D8? Sheesh.” The monster rolled a different rock and let out a relieved breath. “Two.” He picked up a piece of chalk and made a mark on the wall. I’m down to 20. Could have been worse.”
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“Okay,” said the voice. “You’re up, human.”
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“Um…”
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“I assume you’re going to battle him,” said the ceiling in a leading sort of way.
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Jarreth took that to mean he should be taking action. Attacking made sense, so he took a swing at the beast.
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“Hey!” The monster jerked back with a hiss and stared at the line of blood that bloomed on its arm. “You swung your sword at me! What the hell, man?”<br />
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“Aren’t we battling?”
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“In D&D, dude!” The monster put another few feet between them. “What kind of asshole actually swings a literal sword? Did you even bring your dice?”
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“Um… No. I don’t own any dice.”<br />
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The monster gaped. “You went into a D&D dungeon without any dice? How do you expect to beat anyone without dice?”
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Jarreth jiggled his sword around. “Well, I kind of thought I’d use this.”
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“Dude!” The monster plopped down on its rump. “This isn’t that kind of dungeon. This is a D&D dungeon. Didn’t you see the sign at the entrance?”
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“No?” Jarreth thought back to his entering the dungeon. “No signs… There was a painting of some kind of serpent.”
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The monster sighed. “That was the D&D logo. You know, Dungeons and Dragons?”
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“Never heard of it.” Jarreth finally allowed himself to lower his weapon. He didn’t seem to be in danger and his arms were seriously aching.
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“It’s a game,” the monster explained. “It allows people to fight without getting hurt. Which is better for everyone, don’t you think? You can win without having to get buff enough to actually hold that sword properly. Or you can lose without actually dying. It’s pretty fantastic. You can take my treasure, or I can stop you, but either way, everyone gets to go home and no one has to bleed all over the place.”
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“Huh…” Although he’d never heard of this, the idea was intriguing to Jarreth. It wasn’t like he enjoyed working out or having his skin pierced by things like pitchforks. And he was absolutely certain he wouldn’t enjoy dying. “And everyone abides by this?”
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“Oh, yeah. If you don’t, the Dungeon Master will smite you.”
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“Come again?”<br />
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The voice from the ceiling popped back in. “You play by the rules or I kill you. Since you clearly didn’t know any of this, I’m giving you a pass on hurting poor Hubert here, but if you swing that stupid blade of yours around anymore, you’ll get a lightning bolt to the chest.”
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Jarreth wasn’t altogether certain the disembodied voice could summon lightning, but figured it probably wasn’t worth taking a chance on. Instead, he slid his sword into its scabbard. “Sword’s going bye-bye.”
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“Good,” said the voice. “Now… We’ll pretend you rolled what just happened. How bad’s your cut, Hubert? About a point of damage or is it worse?”
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“I don’t think I’ll need a bandage or anything,” Hubert responded. “So certainly not worse than a point.”
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“Okay. So you lose a hit point, but so does the human.”
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“Why me?” asked Jarreth.
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“Because you strained a muscle. Moving on… Hubert?”
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“I pick up the rock that fell on my head and try to bash him with it.” Hubert grinned and rolled a die. “Yes! Nineteen. I assume that hits?”
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“Yeah, that hits. The human obviously has a low armor class. What the damage?”
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“Blunt damage…” Hubert rolled a rock. “Six.”
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“Nice. Human, you lose six hit points.”
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“Okay. What are hit points?”
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Somehow, Jarreth got the impression the disembodied voice was rolling its eyes. “Okay, we’ll say you had fifteen. Then you lost one to the strained muscle. And now six to being bashed with a rock. So you’re down to eight. You need to grab a copy of the Player’s Handbook before you come back. Now, what are you doing to do?”
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“Stab my sword into his eye! The left one!” Jarreth felt clever for coming up with that.
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“I don’t suppose you know your agility stat?”
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“You would be right.”
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The voice sighed. “Okay, well, as you can clearly see, he has tiny little eyes and the lighting in this room isn’t great and he’s a lot taller than you. So you’re pretty much going to need a nat twenty to do that, but go for it.”
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Jarreth shook his head. “How? I mean, you told me not to really use my sword…”
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“You roll,” said Hubert helpfully. He held out a twenty-sided die. “With this. You can borrow mine.”
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“Thanks.” The die was larger than one made for a human would be, but Jarreth managed to toss it anyway. It tumbled a few times, then landed with a one pointing upwards. “One! That’s the best, right?”
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Hubert gave him a pitying look as the voice asked, “Were you not paying attention earlier? Twenty is the best. One is the worst you can do. It’s so bad that you’re likely to hurt yourself failing. In fact, you just did. You rush toward Hubert, intent on spearing him in the eye, but you trip and fall onto your sword yourself. Roll for damage. Piercing with a sword is a D6.”
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Jarreth rolled the die again. “Twelve.”
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“That was a D20,” Hubert said. He held up a cube. “This is a D6.”
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“Doesn’t matter,” said the voice. “I’ve realized he pierced his own eye instead of yours and the sword sliced right into his brain. He’s dead.”
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“But!” Jarreth threw his hands up. “That’s not fair! I can’t be dead just because you said so.”
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“Dude…” Hubert waved four of his hands around. “Drop it. Accept what the DM says and come back with a stronger character next time. Maybe a party. Definitely your own dice. Using your opponent's is bad luck.”
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“But-”
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The lightning bolt that land right next to Jarreth’s foot got him to shut up. “Okay,” he squeaked. “I’m dead. I’ll leave.”
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“Great!” said the voice, suddenly sounding friendly. “There’s a cute little shop in town called Leaves of Adventure. There’s a woman there named Amanda who can sell you all the stuff you need and get you up to speed on the rules.”
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“Amanda’s great,” Hubert put in. “Tell her I said hi. I’d go with you, but the townsfolk tend to freak out when we dungeon dwellers show up on Main Street. And they don’t play the game out there, so people get hurt for real. It’s pretty sad. Not to mention barbaric.”
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“Right.” Jarreth nodded. “Go find Amanda at Leaves of Adventure.”
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“Oh!” Hubert straightening in excitement. “And can you bring some ginger sparkle-sweet when you come back? And maybe some of those cherry sugar ropes they sell at the candy store down there?”
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“I guess, sure.”
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Hubert waved as Jarreth turned and left the dungeon. By the time he made it to the entrance, he had himself half convinced the whole thing had been a hallucination brought on by some kind of gas in the cavern system. But there it was, the painting on the rockface of what he now realized was a dragon twisted into an ampersand. And when he made it to town, there really was a place called Leaves of Adventure. A book in the window had the same picture as the cavern entrance and it was sitting beside a pile of wildly colored dice in a variety of shapes.
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Not sure how his life had gotten to this strange spot, Jarreth nevertheless went into the shop and asked for Amanda.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The above image is by Guy Davis. More of Mr Davis's artwork is on his website at <a href="https://www.guydavisartworks.com/">https://www.guydavisartworks.com/</a> </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>It was offered as a prompt on my Wording Wednesday project. Other responses to the prompt may be shared on the <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2020/01/s4w3-fun-with-dice.html">official Wording Wednesday blog</a>.</i></span></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-25273299383283184092020-01-18T16:16:00.000-08:002020-01-18T21:13:06.353-08:00The Modern Gospel of Lady Luck<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS2iNvkCxG4p-tudcHTjzWVxt9t2l7Jz-Q-OEC_Zmy-0KJD3D9k-Lq8Mo2BUvCjPMnMCiwGIxhGZh2NyKLEoSfaopfieTFb6mj5LuOgcGnYlsXJG6M03TAx8iRdKU439_5qa0dgqHHlek/s1600/1579392554705151-0.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="488" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS2iNvkCxG4p-tudcHTjzWVxt9t2l7Jz-Q-OEC_Zmy-0KJD3D9k-Lq8Mo2BUvCjPMnMCiwGIxhGZh2NyKLEoSfaopfieTFb6mj5LuOgcGnYlsXJG6M03TAx8iRdKU439_5qa0dgqHHlek/s320/1579392554705151-0.png" width="279" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Marisa was the type of wealthy who could look bored while risking a hundred thousand Geodes on the spin of a roulette wheel. Her kind wasn’t uncommon in Essar’s gambling halls. Congregating in such places had long ago taken the place of attending temple worship amongst the upper echelon of Agrani society. Worship of the gods was out of style, replaced by worship of random chance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">People tended to assume that I was pleased with the state of affairs in Agran. I am, after all, the Goddess of Luck and thus the only deity actually in vogue right then. But I wasn’t. I love my Parent, They who created everything, and hated to see how many of Their creations had turned their backs on Them. In Agran, They used to be called the Father of All and invoked daily. But in the Thirtieth Century, the average Agrani wasn’t even sure They exist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Choosing Marisa as my Prophet raised some eyebrows amongst the Heavens. No one could understand what I saw in her. Sure, she followed me, but she didn’t exactly do it enthusiastically. She only went to the casino every week to keep her parents from lecturing her on the importance of making appearances. But that was part of her appeal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was Marisa’s lack of concern for my whims that made her seem so approachable. That her wealth and social standing made her someone people would at least pretend to listen to was an added bonus. Trying to speak through someone who cleaned bathrooms for a living would appeal to my brother, the Lord of Toil, but would have made things considerably more difficult. When would that person even have time to go around lecturing the realm rather than doing something she would get paid for anyway?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At first, Marisa ignored my call. Although she was my first Prophet, I was expecting that. It was only after I cursed her favorite runball team, the Sarseet Seekers, to a winless season the year after they won the championship that she seemed to even believe I was who I claimed to be. “You have a choice,” I told her the next night I saw her in The Thelton, Sarseet’s premiere casino. “You can either have dinner with me or I can curse your niece’s hitdisc team next.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Seriously?” She stared at me. “You’re using a little girl’s peewee team to strongarm me?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A laugh burst forth. “Yeah, okay. I guess that does back up your claim to be a god. A human wouldn’t be that much of a bitch.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I shrugged and didn’t argue the point, although I was fairly certain any number of humans were capable of being just as shitty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">An hour later, we sat in a swanky restaurant with plates of pasta and glasses of wine in front of us. An hour after that, the pasta was gone and a second bottle of wine had just been opened. “So,” I said as the server left with our empty plates and an order for a fresh baked dessert that would take at least half an hour to fill, “are you willing to work for me yet?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Will you hurt Liza if I don’t?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No. I’m not that awful. I might make your niece lose a game, but I would never make her lose a limb or her life.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Alright…” Marisa took a long drink of wine. “What do I have to do to get you to leave her alone completely?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I need you to write a book.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her eyebrows went up. “I’m not a writer.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Ever hear of divine inspiration? The goddess of arts owes me a favor. I can totally make you a writer.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Fair enough.” She swirled the red liquid in her glass, watching it slide along the sides of the container. “But why do you need me? Are you illiterate?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I laughed. “No. But it’s against the rules for me to speak directly to the public. I need a Prophet to channel my words.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That makes no sense.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Can’t argue with you on that,” I said. “But my Parent is very clear that it’s a rule, and there’s no arguing with Them.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Them?” She put down the glass an leaned forward. “Plural?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No.” I shook my head. “Nonbinary. They were the first being in existence and the only one of Their kind. Why would They have a gender?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Huh.” Her gaze went distant for a while before she took a long swig of alcohol. “That sounds lonely.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I imagine it was. That’s probably why They created all of this.” I gestured around the room, but, of course, meant the entire universe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Okay…” She took another drink before meeting my eyes. “So you want to dictate something to me?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I nodded. “Yes.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“People are turning their back on my family. I want to fix that. Especially for my Parent.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Marisa made a tutting sound. “So a book about how we should revere the gods and honor the Creator? No offense, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to read that book.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Not even if the luckiest person in the world wrote it?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There was some amount of jerking about of eyebrows. “I get that I was born to wealth and privilege, but the luckiest person in the world? Plenty of people have more money than I do. Some of them even have epic love stories and adorable children to add in. Whereas my runball team couldn’t even win a single match last year. I lost a million Geodes this evening at roulette. Who would believe I’m that lucky?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I smirked. “Well, you aren’t yet. But you will be. We’re going to spend the next ten years making sure everything in your life is perfect, that every bet you make you win, that every company you own stock in excels, that you get whatever you want out of life, from even more money to true love.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You can get me true love?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Of course.” I waved my hand. “Romantic Fate is my nephew, remember? All I need it to know who to match you with, then I use my luck to make certain you meet.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She considered this for a while, long enough that the waiter came out with our flamed custard pies. As she picked up her spoon, Marisa said, “What will it cost me?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I already told you. You have to write a book.” I tilted my head to my shoulder in a partial shrug. “And promote the book. Possibly build a new temple. But you’ll be remembered as a Prophet after living your perfect life.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“And my children?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I drew in a breath. “I’ll treat them like my own.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh, no.” She lowered the spoon without taking a bite. “I’ve read too much about how you divine types treat your kids. I want you to treat them like you love them.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Cynical, aren’t we?” I took a bite of my own custard. It was creamy, sweet, and pleasantly tart. “Alright. Deal. I will watch over your descendants as though they are my personal treasures.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“And I’ll have children?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“If you want them. I’ve never understood the big deal about having them, but I’ll intercede with the Fertility Twins if I need to. Blen and Blynne have been after me for centuries to have my own offspring, so I can’t imagine they’d hesitate to help my Prophet in that department.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Alright,” she said softly before finally started to eat her dessert.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She looks over our opening ten years after that conversation as she sits before her computer screen with me pacing behind her and says, “I don’t like it. I mean, it’s what happened, but it doesn’t read like a holy text, does it? Those are all full of archaic wordings and outdating phrasing. Makes it all sound more official.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I roll my eyes. “Mar, you’re being silly. Those texts are written in archaic language because they’re ancient. This isn’t. Look at the title, ‘The Modern Gospel of Lady Luck.’ It’s modern. Of course it’s not all, ‘Thou shoudlth look into thyself and observe the holy light of holiness within thine soul.’ Why would it be?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“But how will people know it’s real?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With a laugh, I give my Prophet a hug from behind. “Let me worry about that. You just type. Now, for Chapter Two...”</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_w2zkblw5fdFV6Tf5VNApX5Pk6R4lCeA564AbobX0345WhWyvC6hjwfuoP6wDWRjGlvb1OLM4H7qWeDRwSjqfBoF78DsA18TZikExtpdGH8J1BZuQ3nbBAL0JRk50ag6mcO8S_QMIG8/s1600/1579392797376484-0.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_w2zkblw5fdFV6Tf5VNApX5Pk6R4lCeA564AbobX0345WhWyvC6hjwfuoP6wDWRjGlvb1OLM4H7qWeDRwSjqfBoF78DsA18TZikExtpdGH8J1BZuQ3nbBAL0JRk50ag6mcO8S_QMIG8/s1600/1579392797376484-0.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The above image is by artist Isaac Maimon. Learn more about his work on his <a href="https://www.isaacmaimon.com/">webpage</a>.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>It was given as a writing prompt by my <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2020/01/s4w1-fun-with-cats-playing-chess.html">Wording Wednesday project.</a> Other responses can be found in the comments on that site.</i></span></div>
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Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-22446976493560733532020-01-14T11:01:00.003-08:002020-01-16T13:04:51.871-08:00The Miracle Chess Kitties<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjeCDAoSkQAi3HHhY_eYgUANRDFLrhVM-toeJ9H7XVoksWST-UYUPvQIeibT-jYR1-Ku3QtjfEHDhGSnSotX3cluy88Fjj2990bMJShCv_NVyKhG7CwPiiJJeG7baYqLhjr91ryp6jgqY/s1600/01+Cat+Chess+by+Agnes+Augusta+Talboys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="450" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjeCDAoSkQAi3HHhY_eYgUANRDFLrhVM-toeJ9H7XVoksWST-UYUPvQIeibT-jYR1-Ku3QtjfEHDhGSnSotX3cluy88Fjj2990bMJShCv_NVyKhG7CwPiiJJeG7baYqLhjr91ryp6jgqY/s320/01+Cat+Chess+by+Agnes+Augusta+Talboys.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Agnes always played white, because that was the color of her fur and she got confused when she tried to play as black. This fact alone will likely give you some clue as to how good a chess player Agnes was.<br />
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Of course, there are those who would say a cat playing chess at all is remarkable, even if she did do it poorly. Her sister Gertrude couldn’t play. But the third of the litter, the long haired black cat named Augusta, could beat most non-ranked humans, so clearly felines can do better than poor Agnes.<br />
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Martha was never certain how either cat learned to play chess. She hadn't taught them; she barely understood the game herself. She only owned the chess board because it came in a set of games she bought to entertain her brother's grandchildren when their mother brought them to visit over the Thanksgiving break. The kids opened everything, played once, and then ignored it all in favor of handheld video games.
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The following week, Martha woke up one morning to find the chessboard laid out on her kitchen table and two of her cats staring at it. As Augusta nudged a knight up one and over two, Martha poured herself a cup of coffee and wondered if she’d set the board up in her sleep. It was only after she watched Augusta’s queen swoop across the board to capture Agnes’s bishop that she started to wonder if the cats were actually playing the game rather than simply playing with the pieces. And it took Agnes hanging her head in shame over her king getting captured in check mate for Martha to fully understand what she was watching.<br />
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While the cats sat the board up for another game, Martha went to the box and opened up the booklet that explained the rules. At this point, she was expecting to have a laugh at her credulity that she could share with her coworkers in the church office, but as she read the rules, she realized the cats were playing by them.<br />
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“Mother Mary,” Martha whispered, crossing herself.<br />
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When she told Father Fishbourne that she was worried her cats might be possessed, he listened patiently. In his years in the priesthood, he had heard many claims of possession though he had never actually witnessed an occurrence of it. He was fairly confident that demonic possession wasn’t a thing that actually happened, but felt duty bound to respond to situations like this one as though seriously considering the possibility that a denizen of hell had taken over the mind of housepet.
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When Father Fishbourne entered Martha’s kitchen, he saw nothing that led him to question his default assumption that Martha had simply seen her cats batting chess pieces about in mockery of human play and misinterpreted the situation, but as soon as he sat down beside the prepared gameboard, Augusta jumped onto the table and gave him a very solemn nod.<br />
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“She wants you play,” Martha said. Then she shook her head and muttered under her breath, “I knew I shouldn’t have taken the black one.”
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“That’s a myth,” said the Father. “That black cats are evil. They’re no more of less so than any other cat.” Although the expression the cat appeared to wear as he said this made him less certain of the truth of this than he had been in the past.<br />
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The good Father’s eyes widened considerably as Augusta craned over the white pieces before her to take the king’s knight into her mouth and jump it over the row of pawns. He countered by mirroring the move, which earned him a slanted look from the cat, who then moved a pawn.<br />
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After ten minutes, Father Fishbourne realized he was in check mate. To a cat.<br />
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He leaned back and studied the animal. “I’m going to have to do some research.”<br />
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Thus began a week of the Father coming over every afternoon to play chess with Augusta. Occasionally he won, but it was clear the feline was the superior player. To salve his ego some, he also played against Agnes, who he typically beat. It was, he considered, a sign of her good nature that she continued to play the game when she so seldom won at it.<br />
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He ruled out demonic possession fairly early on with the easy test of blessing the water in their bowl and watching as they drank. The water had no effect, which it should have if demons were involved. What he couldn’t figure out was what was left. Could they be possessed by angels? What would be God’s motivation in arranging that?<br />
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The very next Thursday, the Father was given a possible answer to that question when the first major snowstorm of the season hit. The roof of the church-run homeless shelter valiantly held off the snow, but was powerless when half a frozen tree crashed through it. The shelter now had a massive hole in the roof right when the unfortunate souls who relied on its embrace needed it the most.<br />
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As the shelter’s board of operations frantically brainstormed how to raise money for a new roof, someone mentioned strange fundraisers they’d seen. “One time, this professional chess player did a fundraiser were he held a series of games where people could pay him to play against them. They built like an entire soup kitchen or something.”<br />
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Clarity struck Father Fishbourne and Martha at the same instant. “Augusta!” they exclaimed.<br />
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“No… I think he was Russian.”<br />
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Father Fishbourne shook his head. “No, Brother Wallie. Not the chess player. Or not the human one. Martha has a cat who plays chess. Well, two of them. But one of them plays well. Do you think people would pay to play against a cat?”<br />
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Brother Wallie stared. “I think they’d pay to watch someone play the cat.”<br />
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“Playing the cat would be better,” said Sister Teresa, the head of the Sunday School program. “That way they’d know it was responding to them and wasn’t just trained.” She blinked. “Wait. The cat can play chess. Really?”<br />
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It wound up being a good thing that Augusta was the better chess player, because when the cats were brought into the church the night of the fundraiser, Agnes flipped out and spent the entire evening hiding behind the refrigerator in the kitchen of the Fellowship Hall. Augusta, however, sat proudly before the provided chessboard, a much nicer one than she had at home, and faced every challenger with dignity.
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No one beat her that evening, even though enough people played her to raise over half of the needed funds in the one night.
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Two days later, she was invited onto the local newscast were a reporter played against her and lost while his colleagues told him all the moves they would have made in his stead. They were invited to try their hands against her at the second night of fundraising that Friday.
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By Sunday morning, Father Fishbourne was able to announce that they had sufficient funds to not only rebuild the roof, but add an annex to the building so that it could house more people.
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As she prayed her thanks, Martha realized that while God may have given her this blessing to save the homeless shelter, He probably didn’t want things to stop there. The cats could, after all, still play chess. So she started Miracle Chess Kitty Charities and now tours the country raising money for nonprofits with the help of Augusta and Agnes, who eventually grew less terrified of people and provided a good opponent to the type of person who doesn’t want to say they lost a game of chess to a cat.
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If you’re interested in booking a match against Augusta, you can contact her scheduling agent at (555) 555-5267. And should you lose to her, you may be interested in commemorating the event with an official “I Lost to Augusta the Miracle Chess Kitty” t-shirt, available in her traveling gift shop after every event.
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The above image is by Augusta Agnes Talboys, an artist who painted a lot of cats in the early twentieth century. You can learn more about her at <a href="https://www.thegreatcat.org/the-cat-in-art-and-photos-2/cats-in-art-20th-century/agnes-augusta-talboys-1863-1941-british/">The Great Cat</a>.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">It was given as a writing prompt by my <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2020/01/s4w1-fun-with-cats-playing-chess.html">Wording Wednesday project.</a> Other responses can be found in the comments on that site.</span></i></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-25551993252897305152020-01-03T15:19:00.002-08:002020-02-18T17:13:57.612-08:00Defender of Earth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr2LvTDLELuTGV0_FTuVzhk6Rga3m1dPK4UkdmdfWCM4CeNKiZDJR0WgbZj9DozM_A8bhR-YwuqfAH6S5pm4sRQ3vOqmHK2mzXehJYU24ssz-OzUOqloTGB2rX2F_Or6EjQL2S8tidt7M/s1600/chinese-food-leon-zernitsky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="400" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr2LvTDLELuTGV0_FTuVzhk6Rga3m1dPK4UkdmdfWCM4CeNKiZDJR0WgbZj9DozM_A8bhR-YwuqfAH6S5pm4sRQ3vOqmHK2mzXehJYU24ssz-OzUOqloTGB2rX2F_Or6EjQL2S8tidt7M/s320/chinese-food-leon-zernitsky.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Terra Alexis Duncan sat by herself at Chang’s Famous Buffet. She had come here hoping for some interesting people-watching. Usually a mid-afternoon meal at Chang’s allowed her to view at least one elderly couple who would argue about whether the egg rolls were better here or at China Haven, discuss how the weather is crazier now than it ever has been, and maybe get into an argument about whether the news anchor on the TV in the corner needed to wear less makeup or not. This day there was no such couple, just a pair of dude-bros talking about the babes in their office building.
<br />
<br />
Dude-bros were moderately interesting to Terra Alexis, though less so than old people. Old people had strange opinions derived at from years of experiences foriegn to Terra Alexis’s own. Dude-bros, on the other hand, had strange opinions brought about by looking at the same world Terra Alexis was born into but with a perspective she was certain was flawed. It was odd that they seemed to believe every woman working into their company was put there to be judged by them, but it wasn’t odd in a fun way. It was more odd in an infuriating way that made Terra Alexis half-hope that the crab legs there were eating and she wasn’t would give them food poisoning. They didn’t seem to care that she could hear everything they were saying, though she had no idea if that was because they figured women’s opinions on their conversation were irrelevant, had deemed her too young to worry about, or just didn’t think geeky teenagers with ponytails and chunky glasses were worth noticing.<br />
<br />
The news wasn’t any better. Even without sound, it was depressing. Someone had killed someone, which the analysts were likely saying was going to plunge the world into even greater violence. The leader of her country was possibly going to be removed from office, though probably not. Koalas were on fire in Australia because humans had super-heated the planet. And then the ad break commenced and she was told she needed to buy a new car right this second.<br />
<br />
Terra Alexis sighed as she pulled out her phone and opened one of the more mindless games on it. With one hand, she shoved chow mein into her mouth with a pair of splintery chopsticks while the other drew lines through matching fuzzballs on the screen to remove them and rake up points.
<br />
<br />
When the door opened, Terra Alexis glanced up to see what looked like a third dude-bro. She assumed he was joining the others, so looked back to her phone. However, she looked up again when she noticed he was standing by her table.
<br />
<br />
He blinked at her and suddenly she realized this was no dude-bro. This wasn’t even a human. Human eyes blink up-and-down, but this person had just blinked side-to-side, like automatic doors opening and shutting at the grocery store.
<br />
<br />
Figuring a nonhuman at her table was more interesting than her game, Terra Alexis switched her phone screen off and gave the newcomer her full attention.<br />
<br />
“Terra Alexis Duncan?” he asked, reading the name off of what looked like a standard seven inch tablet. The hand holding the tablet, Terra Alexis couldn’t fail to notice, had one less finger on it than humans typically possessed. The individual focused on her with an expression that clearly communicated he expected a quick confirmation and for the conversation to move on without her mentioning his obvious status as a nonhuman.
<br />
<br />
Being creeped out that he knew her name warred with Terra Alexis’s innate curiosity. She glanced around the restaurant. No one else seemed to notice the individual before her. Did that mean they wouldn’t notice if she started yelling for help? She wasn’t sure. “No?”
<br />
<br />
The individual blinked again. It was even weirder the second time as Terra Alexis realized he hadn’t blinked since that first time on arrival. It was a slow blink, a deliberate blink. His eyes dropped to the tablet and he pressed something on it. Then he looked back at her. “You are Terra Alexis Duncan of Greenrock Village. I am certain of this.”<br />
<br />
Terra Alexis stares. Greenrock Village wasn’t the name of her town but of her subdivision. Knowing her address wouldn’t tell you she lived there unless you actually knew the neighborhood. “Who are you?” she asked.
<br />
<br />
“Bob.”
<br />
<br />
“Uh-huh. And were are you from, Bob?”<br />
<br />
“Vancouver, Canada,” he responded in a flat tone.<br />
<br />
Somehow Terra Alexis failed to believe either that he was named Bob or that he came from anywhere in British Columbia, let alone Vancouver. “If I tell you that I actually am Terra Alexis Duncan, will you tell me who you actually are?”<br />
<br />
The individual gave a nod that sent some of his blond hair flopping into his face. As he moved brushed the hair back into place, he added the word, “Yes.”<br />
<br />
“Alright then.” Terra Alexis leaned back in her chair. “I am Terra Alexis Duncan of Greenrock Village. Have a seat and tell me who the heck you are.”<br />
<br />
Complying, the nonhuman pulled out a chair and sat down in it. “I’m Ernafhero Eakreian Zhoeho. Please call me Erna. I’m from a planet called Eenren. And I’m here to offer you the chance to save your homeworld.”<br />
<br />
Well, that was interesting. Terra Alexis tilted her head to the side as she studied the alien. He blinked at her for what was only the third time and she wondered if blinking conveyed something in his culture or if maybe he only needed to do it once a minute or so. She then wondered if she was using the correct pronoun. Yes, the alien looked like a dude-bro, but maybe all the women on Eenren did. “Are you a male or a female alien, Erna?” she asked.<br />
<br />
Erna stiffened, making Terra Alexis realize that probably hadn’t been the most polite way to phrase what she had just asked. She rushed to rephrase. “I mean, which pronouns do you prefer? He/him? She/her?”<br />
<br />
“It/it,” Erna said. “You may refer to me as it.”<br />
<br />
Terra Alexis smiled a little. “Most people don’t like that one. Most non-binary people tend to like something like ‘they’ or a new word like ‘zhe’ rather than being ‘it’. ‘It’ has a connotation of being a thing, and people don’t like being things.”<br />
<br />
“I’m not people,” Erna responded. “At least not human people. Also, I feel I should point out that your planet is going to be destroyed in ten minutes if you don’t agree to come with me before then, so you may want to hurry things along.”
<br />
<br />
“Oh?” Terra Alexis raised her eyebrows. “Why is my planet going to be destroyed?”<br />
<br />
Erna blinked a fourth time. “Because my superiors will destroy it. With a big gun, like in that movie series you have about the political insurrections in space.”
<br />
<br />
“Star Wars?”<br />
<br />
It shrugged. “Maybe? I don’t remember. It’s very long though.”<br />
<br />
Nodding, Terra Alexis said, “Yeah, sounds like Star Wars…” Leaning forward on her elbows, she thought for a moment before going on. “So, just to be clear… An alien spaceship somewhat akin to the Death Star will destroy my planet ten minutes from now unless I agree to be kidnapped by you?”
<br />
<br />
“It’s not a kidnapping. You have been named Champion of Earth. When you agree to accept the title, you will be escorted my homeworld, where you will be trained to battle against the representatives of seven other worlds for the right for your planet to enter the Galactic Union. Three of you will succeed. The other five will, sadly, see their planets destroyed.”<br />
<br />
“Battle? Like physical fighting or like playing strategy games?”<br />
<br />
Erna waved its hand through the hair like this question was inconsequential. “A series of events that will include both challenges of physical and mental might.”<br />
<br />
“Okay…” Terra Alexis nibbled her lip as she thought about this. “Why me? I’m not a warrior.”<br />
<br />
“Your name. Terra means Earth. Alexis means defender. And Duncan means warrior. Thus you are Earth Defending Warrior.”
<br />
<br />
“I see. So I’ll be battling against someone who’s name means Mars Defending Soldier or something?”<br />
<br />
Erna shook its head. “No. There are no intelligent beings on Mars.”<br />
<br />
Terra Alexis gave him a flat look. “Is everyone from your planet as much of a smart ass as you?”<br />
<br />
“Yes.” Erna’s lips ticked up in a smile.
<br />
<br />
Against her better judgement, Terra Alexis found herself almost liking this alien. Still, she didn’t think she liked it enough to leave the planet with it. “Then I don’t think I want to go there.”
<br />
<br />
Erna’s smile dropped. “You have to. If you don’t, then Earth will be destroyed.”
<br />
<br />
Terra Alexis shrugged. “Sounds to me like if everyone in your little game is evenly matched, then Earth would still have a five in eight shot at getting destroyed anyway. And what are the odds that we’re evenly matched? I’m seventeen, untrained, and weigh all of one hundred and five pounds. Are other species really pathetic enough that I have a chance at beating them in physical combat? Are they houseplants, maybe?”
<br />
<br />
“You would be the smallest contestant this cycle,” Erna admitted. “But there will be training. And also, you are the most intelligent of the contestants judging by what I've seen thus far.”
<br />
<br />
That provoked a snort. “If humans are the smartest people out there, then the universe is royally hosed, dude.”
<br />
<br />
“But Earth would not be.”
<br />
<br />
Thinking about this, Terra Alexis allowed her eyes to drift to the TV. If it hadn’t been there, who knows what conclusion she would have drawn. But it was there, showing her images of a building that was fine yesterday but was now rubble. A lot of people would have seen that and thought they didn’t want their planet to likewise be destroyed. But not Terra Alexis. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m not going.”
<br />
<br />
Erna blinked. “You can’t be serious.”
<br />
<br />
“I am.” Terra Alexis stood up. “I’m not going to spend my last months torturing myself to learn how to fight for people who don’t deserve it. Let one of the the other planets live instead. I’m going to hit the dessert bar. The coconut pudding here is excellent and I'm down to something like five minutes to enjoy it in.”
<br />
<br />
As it stared at the human girl walking up to the buffet's selection of sweets, Erna couldn’t help but feel it could have done a better job at picking a representative for Earth. Then it glanced at the TV and wondered if maybe the entire species was selfish enough that it really couldn’t have done better.
<br />
<br />
With a final blink of its eyes, Erna stood up, loaded the app that would summon a transport beam, and returned to his office to file a report explaining to its superiors why there would only be seven planets in this cycle’s games.
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The above image is Chinese Food by Leon Zernitsky. You can order a print of it on<a href="https://fineartamerica.com/featured/chinese-food-leon-zernitsky.html"> Fine Art America</a>.</i></span></div>
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<i>The story was prompted by a text conversation with my teenaged son. He had gone to a Chinese buffet by himself and was reading the news while listening to some dude-bro types. I texted him back that according to the Hero's Journey he was about to get a Call to Action. He responded that I could use the situation as a writing prompt.</i></div>
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Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-29267483555683626382019-11-04T17:09:00.004-08:002019-11-04T17:09:47.247-08:00The Tangled Tentacles of Fate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFEJOzPCvXwzQpGX8qUCm1ImBzD6llm0f225MwBRBLXpbhY7-w8Ia3u1xYo6Gar7UccoHXqiwUgJizXfQfRIvGe9kjZ_Msir3jZHHvRRwV_chGiidg_qu4JlV7EEh2Ti2cbMoAKImn0Lw/s1600/06+sea-creature-and-sub-malvy-westbrook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFEJOzPCvXwzQpGX8qUCm1ImBzD6llm0f225MwBRBLXpbhY7-w8Ia3u1xYo6Gar7UccoHXqiwUgJizXfQfRIvGe9kjZ_Msir3jZHHvRRwV_chGiidg_qu4JlV7EEh2Ti2cbMoAKImn0Lw/s320/06+sea-creature-and-sub-malvy-westbrook.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>
<br />
Agata swam under a sign labeling her as a eyhnu and blinked her many eyes, wondering for the zillionth time why it was that humans have such a hard time refraining from using flash photography. It’s not like there weren’t signs next to each display at The Zoo Aquatic reminding people not to use it. The worst part, Agata believed, was that since they were taking photos from inside submarines, there’s no way a photo taken with a flash was ever going to show anything other than a burst of light. Which meant Agata was constantly being blinded by people wanting a selfie with the giant tentacle “monster” but actually taking images of them next to a blinding light instead. Some humans, Agata was left to assume, were just dimwitted.<br />
<br />
There was a petition going around the displays, as the creatures who acted like zoo exhibits were called, to insist that the human submarines coat their windows in something that would prevent the light from passing out. None of the management really seemed on board, though. Perhaps it was time to consider a strike.<br />
<br />
It amused Agata to imagine the angry explosion Mr Apolusa, the owner of The Zoo Aquatic, would engage in should the displays decide they were tired of performing for minimal recompense and under conditions that were deteriorating, not rapidly but certainly with great regularity. The over-use of flash photography was just one of the complaints that could be filed. There were also concerns about the quality of food provided in the cafeteria, the inefficient fuel usage of the submarines, and the long hours during which displays where expected to be in their enclosures without bathroom breaks. The last one really got to Agata, who refused to do what some of the displays did and simply pee in front of everyone.<br />
<br />
Nursing a headache, Agata went straight to her apartment as soon as she clocked out of work, stopping just long enough along the way to pick up a fresh algae pizza for dinner. It wasn’t, she knew, the healthiest choice she could be making, but who has the energy to hunt down fish while fighting off a migraine?<br />
<br />
Normally, Agata would put something on her screen to binge watch, but she couldn’t deal with the backlighting, so brought out the novel she was reading, a romantic comedy about an orca who fell for a guy from the wrong side of the Puget Sound, or the Eei@ieey!!ie, as it was called natively.<br />
<br />
Sometimes Agata dreamed of living in her own romance story, even though her previous attempts had been disastrous in the extreme. And when I say disastrous, what I mean is that of her five exes, only one had survived.
<br />
<br />
It was the survivor who knocked on her door this evening. “Oh, Paulo,” she said as she beheld him floating outside. “Why today?”<br />
<br />
He moved about half of his tentacles in a struggle to stay put against the weak current. Half the tentacles he moved were solely to counteract ones that had moved erroneously, either in the wrong direction or with too much power. Paulo had always had difficulties staying put when he was nervous, which he appeared to be now if his pale pink pallor was anything to judge by. “Why not today?”<br />
<br />
“Because we’re two weeks into tourist season and my head is trying to split in two even without having to deal with you.”<br />
<br />
Paulo’s two largest eyes, the ones in the center of his head, dropped in discouragement. “Oh. I’m sorry. I’ll go away.”
<br />
<br />
As he started to turn, Agata was stricken with guilt over how mean she had been. Paulo really wasn’t a bad guy. That’s why she broke up with him rather than eating him like she’d usually do with a lover she no longer wanted. “Wait,” she said. “It’s okay. Come in.”<br />
<br />
With a weak smile, Paulo adjusted course again and managed to navigate through the door. Agata’s apartment was decorated to be as close to a cave as possible, although the walls were far too straight and served to make people a bit uncomfortable with their uncanniness. This was the first time Paulo had seen it as he hadn’t visited since she moved our of their shared place last year. He tried not to stare, but a few of his smaller eyes did anyway. The apartment was so oddly boxed-shaped, he almost couldn’t process it. It reminded him of a picture he’d seen of a human dwelling, and he was puzzled as to why anyone would try to recreate that style underwater.<br />
<br />
Agata closed the door and shifted in the uncomfortable silence. “How have you been?”<br />
<br />
“Um… Alright. You?”<br />
<br />
“Fine I guess. A lot of headaches. I think I’m getting more sensitive to light.” It was a common sign of aging, so Agata moved on quickly rather than discussing it further. “Still at The Zoo, but starting to think I might look for something a little deeper.”
<br />
<br />
“Really?” The question came quickly and contained an eagerness that threw Agata off.
<br />
<br />
“Maybe…”<br />
<br />
Paulo looped a few tentacles through the water as he settled against a rock that was probably supposed to mimic a natural formation but was really just a singular rock sticking up from a flat floor. “It’s just… I’m moving down to i!eea@. My dad wants help with the hatchery.”<br />
<br />
“That’s cool.” Agata mentally poked herself, trying to figure out what the emotion she was feeling in response to this was. It seemed almost like disappointment that he’d be further away. That couldn’t be it though, could it? They weren’t dating anymore, weren’t even really friends. What did it matter if he moved fathoms from her?<br />
<br />
“Is it?” he asked softly, a few of his tentacles turning toward lavender. “You don’t sound certain.”<br />
<br />
She wasn’t. But she could hardly tell him that. Instead, she shrugged a few tentacles. “Probably the headache.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, probably.” Paulo looked around the room, taking in the details. Whoever had built it clearly hadn’t had eyhnus in mind. It was built for something smaller, something more content to float in the empty spaces rather than wanting to cling to rocks. And it was too warm. And the pressure was too low. And there was too much light thanks to having a window, of all the bizarre things to have. He felt certain he’d have a headache just about every day if he tried to live somewhere like it, but he also knew that Agata wouldn’t welcome comments on the matter, so said nothing.<br />
<br />
“Say hey to your dad for me,” Agata said. “I always liked him.”<br />
<br />
“And he liked you,” Paulo responded, allowing sadness to weave through the words. “My whole family did.” He let it go unsaid that he had as well. That he still did. That, in actual fact, he adored her completely and wanted nothing more than to whisk her down into the depths to breed a new generation of eyhnus. He was certain she didn’t want to hear it now any more than she had wanted to hear it the day she left him. “Anyway… I just wanted to say goodbye.”
<br />
<br />
Later, Agata would blame the headache for the way she had just smiled and let him go.<br />
<br />
It was the next day before she realized that he hadn’t come to say goodbye at all, that what he had actually wanted was for her to protest his leaving.<br />
<br />
It was the day after that before she realized she had wanted to protest, that she still did want to protest. But it was too late, wasn’t it? She’d already let him go and now she was just going to have to live with that.<br />
<br />
It yet another day before she realized that maybe it wasn’t too late, that maybe he would still want to be with her even though she had let him go the other night. And maybe, she realized, even if it was too late, that didn’t mean she shouldn’t try. She knew, with suddenly clarity, that if she didn’t find Paulo immediately and tell him that if he was going into the abyss, then so was she, that she was going to… Well, not die. Probably. But certainly regret it for a very long time.<br />
<br />
She decided she’d go after work. Then another flash went off and she said to herself, “Self, this is crap. I’m outta here.” Even though the day was only half over, she flipped the sign over to the side that read, “Creature not on exhibit. Try back later!” and quit The Zoo Aquatic without notice.<br />
<br />
When Paulo’s eyes landed on her as he swam outside his cavern giving it one last look over before turning his key over the landlord, his whole body went still. “You look awfully pink,” he told her, his own body portraying a pleased deep purple hue even though he had been a shade of green that bordered on white just moments before.<br />
<br />
Agata stared at him for a moment as her hearts raced each other to see which would explode first. “It’s not cool,” she said.<br />
<br />
Paulo tilted his head. “What isn’t?”<br />
<br />
“You moving.”<br />
<br />
A small smile skirted across Paulo’s lips. “Oh, it’s not?”<br />
<br />
“No.” Agata realized she’d been drifting closer and was now near enough to Paulo to grab a hold of some of his tentacles, so she did. “Not if you’re leaving me here.”
<br />
<br />
“Is that so?” Paulo was grinning now, his skin now so deep a purple as to be almost black. “Well, the landlord already has a new tenant lined up for this place. So are you asking me to move into your weird box?”
<br />
<br />
“No.” The answer was quiet, blending into the rush of a school of fish that passed nearby. “I’m telling you to take me with you.”
<br />
<br />
Paulo’s tentacles rubbed against Agata’s, bringing a feeling of comfort and awakening a desire that she’d nearly forgotten. “I’d never be so foolish as to disobey you, my love.”
<br />
<br />
“You would too,” Agata said, smiling herself as her color rushed from pink through to navy blue.<br />
<br />
“Okay, I would. But not about this.”<br />
<br />
The pair brought their foreheads to rest together, the eyhnu version of a passionate kiss.<br />
<br />
As soon as they could pack up Agata’s belongings, they moved to the depths and found a lovely little cave that was close to, but not too close to, Paulo’s father’s cave. Paulo helped his father at the hatchery, later taking it over completely, while Agata started a small business selling items imported from the human world. Occasionally she gets a camera, and she always removes the flash.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Above image is Sea Creature And Sub by Malvy Westbrook. This and other paintings by Westbrook can be purchased on <a href="https://fineartamerica.com/featured/sea-creature-and-sub-malvy-westbrook.html">Fine Art America</a>.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">It was given as a writing prompt by my <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2019/10/s3w4-and-creature-is-snake.html">Wording Wednesday project.</a> Other responses can be found in the comments on that site.</span></i></div>
</span></i>Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-63030384832676562302019-10-29T21:05:00.000-07:002019-10-29T21:05:24.406-07:00Priscilla the Talented Rat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWY-U6imv9FUtpGrMCaiQ84wHfifFY0STTw_vzVOkog1IuzA-rTAO0CiY8Nf8-7LDcAF3RkT6ONqR2ut1-TOybYbTYg41mbnA4IyLNYY6b2y85TYIwzoXhgfvNk3puUFo5DzurL3zivrI/s1600/05+Rat+Reading+by+Dylan+Meconis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1023" data-original-width="731" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWY-U6imv9FUtpGrMCaiQ84wHfifFY0STTw_vzVOkog1IuzA-rTAO0CiY8Nf8-7LDcAF3RkT6ONqR2ut1-TOybYbTYg41mbnA4IyLNYY6b2y85TYIwzoXhgfvNk3puUFo5DzurL3zivrI/s320/05+Rat+Reading+by+Dylan+Meconis.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>
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In the early twentieth century, there lived a pair of completely mundane people named Campbell. The Campbells liked to joke that since they had no human children, they passed all of their qualities on to their pets. They had an iguana name Samanatha who they taught to do arithmetic. She could easily add and subtract single digit numbers, indicating the answers by flicks of her tongue, although her communication broke down when the numbers got too high and an equation with a negative answer would make her emit a high-pitched whine guaranteed to cause migraines in all who heard it. Samantha never gained much reknown, possibly because as an iguana she simply wasn’t considered cute enough.
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<br />
It was with Priscilla that the Campbells had the most success gaining notice. Unlike poor Samantha, Priscilla was considered cute by many, although she caused others to scream and flinch. Priscilla, you see, was a rat, and while rats do cause some people to become squeamish, they have a large fan base.
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Priscilla started her artistic career as most artists do, by bucking against the idea that they need to copy the art of others. Although she lacked the words to express her frustration, it was very clear that she saw no need to repaint the scenes in the books of classic artwork she was given. That’s why, the Campbells decided, her version of the Mona Lisa looked more like an abstract construction of the Chineese word for squirrel than a secretive human woman and her impression of Dali was nothing but a bunch of loops. This could have been disastrous had Mrs Campbell not had an innate understanding of marketing and been able to convince people that these were actually deep commentary on the original subject matter. It soon became all the fashion to invite Priscilla to your party so that she could deconstruct famous artworks for your guests for sums of money that were really quite reasonable as the price was set assuming there would be a large amount of tipping, which there generally was.
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Despite the steady income Priscilla had been providing, the Campbells were happy when they received an offer to purchase the rat outright. They had begun to worry that they had exhausted their social circle and its connections, and thus were they concerned that there might well be fewer bookings in future.
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This is how Priscilla came to live with a man named Dmitri Marceou. Dmitri had no interest in parading Priscilla about for performances, for he didn’t care for people enough to attend more than about one gathering per decade. He also had no interest in her as an art critic.<br />
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Dmitri Marceou was a sorcerer, and as such he recognized the magic inherent in Priscilla’s works. What others saw as comments about art, or as random nonsense created by a rodent, if they were being more honest, Dmitri knew were actually sigils waiting to be fed magic. For example, had Priscilla’s stylistic recreating of the Chinese pictograph for squirrel been fed a moderate amount of magical energy, it would have summoned the subject of the Mona Lisa. Not the painting, but the actual woman who sat for it. In the case of that particular painting, it would have been entertaining. But I’m certain you can see why a person in possession of sanity might hesitate to apply the same procedure to Picasso’s Guernica or to pretty much anything by Hieronymus Bosch.
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Over the next year, Dmitri collected sigils for everything he thought might be useful to have the ability to summon, from still lifes of apples to portraits of great generals, from depictions of puppies to images of prostitutes. At one point, it even occurred to him to paint a picture of Priscilla that she could then paint a rendition of so that he could revive her after her death. Then, the next day, he realized he could recreate the Fountain of Youth so neither he nor his precious rat need grow old.<br />
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And why, you may be wondering, have you never heard of Dmitri Marceou? Surely a man with such abilities would be able to conquer the world?<br />
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The answer is simple: Dmitri is a smart man. This means that he is fully aware how much work conquering the world involves. It’s not just the taking things over that’s a problem, although it is a challenge. What happens once you own the world? Now you have to run it, all the while protecting yourself from the people who would remove you from power if given half a chance. Isn’t it better not to bother? To live life in comfort and at ease with no one realizing you’re anything other than a person who happens to be wealthy but otherwise isn’t terribly interesting?
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I will tell you a secret. You have seen Dmitri. He’s not called that now, and no one realizes how old he truly is, for as we’ve established he has access to the Fountain of Youth. He allows himself to age sometimes when he’s enjoying a certain life, then will bathe himself young again and create a new identity when he’s bored. His current identity is quite well known, although I would never betray his trust to the degree of telling you what name he wears. If nothing else, it would cost me my job, if not my life.
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<br />
As for Priscilla, Dmitri never forgets to splash her with rejuvenating water every few months so that he will not have to resort to summoning an earlier version of her. Rats are quite companionable creatures and the pair have bonded over the time they have been together so that now it would wound Dmitri considerably to lose his furry companion. When he first purchased her, Dmitri did see Priscilla as a tool, but she quickly became a pet and is now more like a child. She is, in fact, quite possibly the most pampered rat on the planet.
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<br />
Though I myself am not a sorcerer, I have tried to teach many other creatures, including other rats, to paint sigils. I have yet to have any success in the matter and can only speculate as to what it was that instilled the ability in Priscilla. Perhaps there are other creatures with the talent helping other sorcerers, unbeknownst to me. A part of me hopes there is, while the rest is happy to think that darling Priscilla is unique. Either way, she is a very good rat and I am honored to be allowed to clean her cage.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The above image was painted by Dylan Meconis, who can be found on Flickr as Quirky Bird at <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/quirkybird/">https://www.flickr.com/photos/quirkybird/</a></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">It was given as a writing prompt by my <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2019/10/s3w4-and-creature-is-snake.html">Wording Wednesday project.</a> Other responses can be found in the comments on that site.</span></i></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-54086997025323512492019-10-16T15:36:00.002-07:002019-10-16T16:07:32.602-07:00There's Nothing Like the Slither of Little Scales<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyftpCYHeIEWooFmoItIrsihxwtXcAwkWq-Hv9m-1d47-DNenv9w14e36I29rhBrUWyhBMaxOI-qijhKgql5IhKt6JVRFzI6lMePBdpFFN185zowFp8Nkd95PY13gm1zZ4qFEGjQghdzY/s1600/04+Look+Mama+by+Rizzyfig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="570" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyftpCYHeIEWooFmoItIrsihxwtXcAwkWq-Hv9m-1d47-DNenv9w14e36I29rhBrUWyhBMaxOI-qijhKgql5IhKt6JVRFzI6lMePBdpFFN185zowFp8Nkd95PY13gm1zZ4qFEGjQghdzY/s320/04+Look+Mama+by+Rizzyfig.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Kumar has taken the birth of his baby sister in remarkable stride. He did ask me at one point, “Mama, why is she a snake and I’m not?” but he was satisfied with my answer that while sometimes the child of a nagi will be born in human form and later develop the ability to change into a snake, other times the child is born as a serpent and has to learn how to turn into a human.<br />
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I wish I could say my husband took Aditi’s birth as well, but he stared at her egg in horror when I birthed it, watched her hatching with pale apprehension, and has yet to pick her up. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still saying the right things. He acknowledges she’s his daughter and claims that he loves her just a much as our human-born child. But to say that he’s freaked out would be an understatement. Likewise, I’d be lying if I didn’t report that he asks me at least three times a day, “So when will she turn human?”<br />
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Back when we were still dating, I did tell Jamil that giving birth to a snake was something I could do, and that, in fact, I myself was born in serpent form. He’d made a thoughtful sound at that before declaring that I certainly looked mammal enough now. I’d laughed, because my human form has a bustline that really does make me look extremely mamaline. But in answer to my husband’s question, I can only say that our daughter will never turn human. She will develop a human form, but she will always be nagi. Just like her mother and her elder brother.<br />
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“Look, Mama!” Kumar calls from next to his sister’s terrarium. “She’s giving me nose kisses!”<br />
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Sure enough, as my son move his nose to press against the glass, my daughter raises her head to touch her face against his. My heart swells as I try not to die from the adorableness of it all.
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“Tini loves me!” Kumar proclaims, the words filled with a level of happiness known only to young children. He has already nicknamed his sister, saying that “Tini” is the perfect shortening of her name because of how teeny she is. “And I love her! Can I hold her?”
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Smiling, I cross the living room to Aditi’s enclosure. I’m currently in my between form, with a body that is half human and half snake, so the traveling is more of a slither than a walk. I revert to scales when I’m upset, but thankfully Kumar hasn’t asked me about that. “If you promise to be careful.”<br />
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“Of course I’ll be careful. She’s just a baby!”<br />
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Tears tease my eyes over his earnestness. He really does adore her, and doesn’t hold her scaley form against her in the slightest. What did I do to deserve such a sweet kid? Two kids so sweet, I correct as I watch how eagerly Aditi moves from my hand to her brother’s. The kids both smile up at me, although I suppose you have to be pretty familiar with snakes to recognize what one looks like when smiling.
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The floor creaks behind us and I turn over my shoulder to see Jamil watching us. His expression is harder for me to read than Aditi’s. He’s definitely not joyful like she is. He looks a little less horrified than he has lately, though.
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“See how good Kumar is with the baby?” I ask him. “Aren’t you proud of him?”<br />
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“Very,” comes the easily given answer. It’s easy for him to show affection for the human-looking offspring, something I try not to feel bitter about. I know he’s trying not to be a narrow minded git; it’s just that it’s apparently more challenging than he expected. “He is an excellent big brother. She’s lucky to have him.”<br />
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Kumar nods solemnly, but doesn’t look as pleased as he usually does over Jamil’s praise. He may only be four, but he’s caught on that his dad has been acting weird about the new addition to the family. “She’s a very good little sister. I’m lucky. She doesn’t even scream like Claire’s baby brother.”<br />
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Jamil’s reaction surprises me a little. “She is a good baby, isn’t she?” He moves closer, his eyes caught on where Aditi has wrapped herself around Kumar’s little arm like a decorative bracelet. He pauses next to me and meets my eyes for a moment. Whereas there’s been a distant look in his expression for days, his face is suddenly filled with affection for me. “And she’s as gorgeous as your mother. Her scales have the same coloring.”<br />
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My breath rushes in. He’s praised my scaley forms before, always seeming to accept them without fear or repulsion. I’d never have said yes to marrying him, let alone had children with him, if he couldn’t handle all aspects of me. That’s why I was so sadly surprised over his reaction to Bitini.<br />
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“I love you,” Jamil whispers, too quietly for the children to hear. “I’m sorry I’ve been an ass.”<br />
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My eyebrows go up. “Who told you?”<br />
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With a chuckle and a shake of his head, Jamil puts an arm around me. “My mum called. Demanded to know why I’d married a snake if I was afraid of baby snakes. Then compared me to my dad.”<br />
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Together, we wince. Jamil’s dad had taken one look at his infant son, packed a bag, and moved out. He always sent his child support payments on time, but otherwise would have had to try really hard to be a worse parent.
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“I’m not him,” Jamil says firmly.
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“No, you’re not.” I reach up and grab his hand where it rests on my shoulder. “You’d never abandon either of your children.”
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He gives my fingers a squeeze before moving away. “Hey, Big Brother, can I have a turn holding Little Bit?”
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Kumar grins. “Ask nicely.”
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“Please?”
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“Alright. But her name is Tini, not Little Bit.” Our son turns his face to address his sister. “Tini, this our dad. He’s pretty cool most of the time.”
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Maybe it’s the postpartum hormones or maybe it’s all the stress of the last few weeks suddenly breaking through, but I find myself having to cover my mouth to hold back the sounds of sobs as my son gently transfers his sister to his dad. Jamil takes the child with two hands, holding her like she’s made of glass but watching her with a wonder that’s definitely tinged with love rather than horror.
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Jamil holds Bitini up to his face and tenderly rubs her tiny little head with a finger. “Hey, there, pretty girl. I’m your daddy. I’m sorry I haven’t been doing a very good job of it yet, but I’m going to do better from now on.”
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“Dad,” Kumar interrupts, “she doesn’t understand all of that. She’s a baby.”
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“I know.” Jamil smiles and lays a kiss against our daughter’s scales. “But I think she understands that I love her.”
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Even as tears continue to torrent down my cheeks and goo fills my nose, causing me to sniffle, I smile. For the first time since I realized my second child would be born in snake form, I’m confident my little family is going to be alright. Maybe even more than alright.
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My son quietly hands me a box of tissues and I wrap my tail around his waist while he leans into my side.
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Yeah, we’re going to be better than alright. We’re going to be amazing.
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The above image is called Look Mama! and is by Raissa Figueroa, who also goes by the name Rizzyfig. You can buy a copy of it on <a href="https://www.etsy.com/dk-en/listing/645966029/look-mama-by-rizzyfig-whimsical-snake">Etsy</a>.</span></i></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>It was given as a writing prompt by my <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2019/10/s3w4-and-creature-is-snake.html" target="_blank">Wording Wednesday project.</a> Other responses can be found in the comments on that site.</i></span></div>
<br />Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-467365092829650832019-10-13T15:06:00.000-07:002019-10-13T15:06:03.082-07:00A Promotion in Hell<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As Xed Dilman walks into the office of Hellpower Company’s Chief of Personnel, Mr Zarus smiles in a way that should make at least one of Dilman's heads nervous. Normally, the head in Dilman's stomach is quick to pick up on details, but for some reason he beams back at Mr Zarus without a hint of hesitation and it's Xed's upper head, the one on his shoulders, that shoots me a nervously inquisitive look as Vice President Mr Zarus grabs Xed’s hand and gushes, “Congratulations, Dilman!”
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I bite down on the tip of my tail, which I just realize I've stuck in my mouth again. It's a really bad habit that I seriously need to break. The other day I read an article that suggested putting foul tasting substances on your nails to stop biting them and I'm thinking that would probably work for tails too. I just need to think of something that won't stain my white fur.
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Alerted by the volume of Mr Zarus's voice, several of the office workers appear in the doorway to see what's going on as Xed's lower head thanks Mr Zarus without seeming to wonder what he's being congratulated for. Our coworkers' eyes go to the paper our boss is waving around as they likely wonder about that as Dilman isn't exactly the strongest member of the marketing team. A few of them look at me, knowing I would have typed it up the letter, and I try not to go be anything away with my expression.
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Mr Zarus moves his smile to the creatures gathered outside his office. “Everyone congratulate Dilman! He’s just been promoted to Head of Human Resources!”
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“What?” goes one of Xed’s heads. “Oh, Heaven, no,” blurts the other.
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Our boss narrows his eyes on Xed’s upper head. “No need to curse. Your work here has more than proved you perfect for this job.”
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I hold back a whimper by sticking my tail back between my lips. That was an incredibly mean thing to say, even for a hellbeast.
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“This calls for a drink!” announces Martinez, in whose opinion pretty much everything in life necessitates an alcoholic beverage. He clops a chipper hand on Dilman’s shoulder and pulls him toward the exit. “Come on, dude. First round’s on me.”
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Forcing my tail from my mouth, I wrap its tip around my left horn as I watch Dilman leave. I’ll see him again, when he comes back to fill out his travel authorization. After that… Well, the last Head of Human Resources lasted a good month on earth, but she was a great deal more capable than poor Xed has ever been.
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The version of me from my high school years would have been disappointed at the way I sit at my desk and quietly turn to my computer to print out the forms the widower of the last Head of Human Resources is going to need to fill out in order to claim the company sponsored life insurance payout. College me would have dipped her head in shame. Those versions of me still believed saving the world was something a lone demon could achieve if she just tried hard enough. College me would have stood up, quite possibly on the desk rather than behind it, and said it’s ridiculous that we keep sending people to die in the human world. And for what? The chance to sign a few more souls? Aren’t there enough souls in hell already? Don’t humans do a good enough job of damning themselves without interference?
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Why is it, college me would have demanded at the top of her lungs, that we all take it as a given that we need to keep increasing the number of damned humans in the universe? Sure, their agony powers our energy grid, but itsn’t it about time that cheaper alternatives were explored? The humans have tech almost as good as ours these days and they’re not burning souls to power it. And Heaven is still operating, even though they have fewer souls than ever these days. Couldn’t that indicate that human ecstacy may be a more powerful energy source than agony?
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Personal Assistant me agrees with college and high school me, but lost the energy to complain about it years ago. Last time I mentioned the possibility of running things off positive emotions rather than pain, my ex-girlfriend had rolled her eyes and told me to watch less human entertainment. Apparently they had a film where monsters learned that a child’s laughter was a more powerful energy source than a child’s terror. I haven’t seen this movie, but I have to wonder if it was written by someone from Hell who shares my opinion.
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I take the printout, shove it in an envelope, and address it to poor Herman. It’s tempting to go ahead and print out a second copy for Dilman’s wife while I have the file open, but there’s just enough optimism in me that I don’t do it. The new job may fundamentally be a death sentence, but a million things could theoretically happen to save him. They probably won’t, but they could. In a universe of infinite possibilities, something could keep Dilman’s infant daughter from loosing her daddy before she even gets to know him.
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My finger hovers in front of my screen for a moment before I close the file. I take a deep breath as I rub my horn with my tail. This job is robbing me of my sense of self… My eyes go to Mr Zarus. He sits at his desk with the empty stare of someone who has logged into a virtual reality program.
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Nodding in silence, I open a new terminal and create an account at jobseekers.hell. Maybe I can’t save the underworld, but I can at least find a job that doesn’t involve cheerfully helping good-hearted demons die young.
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<i><div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The above image is from a text by fifteenth century Italian lawyer and bishop Jacobus de Teramo. I haven't been able to find the name of the artist.</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>It was given as a writing prompt by my <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2019/10/s3w3-and-creature-demon.html" target="_blank">Wording Wednesday project.</a> Other responses can be found in the comments on that site.</i></span></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-74752105943012189172019-10-04T11:35:00.000-07:002019-10-04T11:35:36.000-07:00Along Came a Spider and Sipped Tea Beside Her<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzk9jU3tf563fzeFv0uRBLPvFWq3FLQNcEPwDdw9E50C6IeIfURxGnPf0GwF9hRMa1IJWTq8mrjHF1rO3Vdw5djRmw2VRcI5oVKnfMILaiYqp-vOg6Y-lQW-kqwh_kLm7hBGRT0lKBp4A/s1600/02+Tea+with+Spider+by+Tursi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="570" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzk9jU3tf563fzeFv0uRBLPvFWq3FLQNcEPwDdw9E50C6IeIfURxGnPf0GwF9hRMa1IJWTq8mrjHF1rO3Vdw5djRmw2VRcI5oVKnfMILaiYqp-vOg6Y-lQW-kqwh_kLm7hBGRT0lKBp4A/s320/02+Tea+with+Spider+by+Tursi.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
When a person sees a picture of a spider pouring tea, most folks will assume that the tea pot is very small and the spider is “regular” size. Humans in general just don’t want to look at the image and assume the teapot is what is standard, because this would make for a spider of alarmingly large proportions. That’s what I assumed when I saw the sign outside the tea shop I just walked into.<br />
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While in school, I was told that giant spiders were impossible due to the weight of their exoskeletons. I remind myself of this while staring at the sight in front of me. Clearly, what looks like a spider with a body the size of a Great Dane must be something else. A robot maybe? But everything about the spider seems so... organic.
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“It’s called Victorian Rose,” the spider says, talking about the tea she just offered me in a posh and melodic voice. I’m assuming she uses female pronouns due to the sound of her voice, but maybe that’s prejudiced of me. For all I know, the voice I’m hearing is deep for a spider. Or maybe it’s the male spiders with the high voices. It seems really inappropriate to ask. “It’s a black tea blend with bergamot, like an Earl Grey, but I’ve added rose and lavender. It’s really quite lovely.”<br />
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“Yes, please?” My mother taught me to be polite and refusal seems like it would be rude. I walked into a tea shop advertising free samples, so clearly society would expect me to accept one barring some valid reason to decline, such as an allergy to one of the ingredients. Citing the species of the person doing the pouring of the tea as a reason to decline seems tacky at best. Mama didn’t raise me to be tacky.
<br />
<br />
The spider makes a brief, happy-sounding hum as she pours. “It’s probably my favorite of our black teas. I’m a sucker for roses.”<br />
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I nod. It’s possible that I’m terrified. That would explain the complete numbness that’s wrapped itself around me. “Yes. Rose petals are very nice in teas.”<br />
<br />
“My name is Jan,” the spider says conversationally as she holds out a delicate porcelain tea cup from which emits an aroma I must admit is rather appealing. For a moment, I think that the name confirms this is a female spider, but then I remember that the name Jan can be given to boys in some parts of the world. The human world. Our rules may not apply to giant spiders anyway.<br />
<br />
Under the theory that running away from scary things is seldom the best option, I take the tea cup rather than fleeing in terror and give it a long sniff. As promised, there are notes of rose, lavender, and bergamot. If it was being offered to me by anyone other than a gigantic arachnid, I’d be really excited about it rather than somewhat ambivalent. Is that racist of me? It may be. Best to sip the tea before it becomes obvious that I’m nervous about drinking it. Jan lifts a second cup from a nearby shelf and pours herself a cup, which she begins to drink while I’m still pretending to take in the scent.<br />
<br />
My first sip is small, but that probably doesn’t seem odd. Most people take small tastes of hot things, yes? The taste matches the aroma well. It’s floral and a little dainty, with an unexpected hint of smoke. “Is there lapsang souchong in the blend?” I ask, suddenly more intrigued than uneasy.
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<br />
“Good job!” Jan claps with two of the hands that aren’t busy either holding the tea or keeping her upright. It’s more than a bit disconcerting, but holds a slight hint of silliness that helps me relax a little more. “I was inspired by the idea of Victorian London. You know that fog they were famous for was smoke, right? So I thought surely I needed a spark of smokiness!”<br />
<br />
“Make sense,” I say. “And it works really well.”<br />
<br />
“If you like smoky teas, you might also like our Witches’ Pyre blend. It’s both woodsy and smoky. Some people say its name is in bad taste, of course, but as I was cursed to this form by a witch, I’m actually more okay than I probably should be with the idea of burning them.”
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<br />
“Oh.” I’m really not sure what one is supposed to say to a declaration like that. “Woodsy and smoky sounds good.”
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She nods, which moves most of her body. “We used to call it Campfire, back in the precurse days.”
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<br />
With a small sound to indicate that I’d heard her, I struggle to decide if I want to ask about the curse. She kind of seems to want me to. I shift my weight as I hold the tea cup with both hands and take another sip.
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<br />
“If you’re wondering what I did to be cursed, it wasn’t anything bad,” Jan says. “All I said was that I could really use some extra hands. I think the witch might actually have thought she was doing me a favor.”
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<br />
“Wow.” I blink. “Yeah, I’ve said that loads of time, but I didn’t mean that I wanted to be a spider. I just meant that sometimes it’s hard to juggle stuff.”<br />
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“I know, right? Some people just take things way too literally, I suppose.”<br />
<br />
“Seems that way.”<br />
<br />
As the last of the tea slips down my throat, I finally motivate myself to look around the shop. It looks like a perfectly normal tea shop with shelves of jars lining the walls along with the occasional display of a tea pot, cups, or infuser. I’ve been in dozens like it, although never before have I a met a shopkeeper with eight arms. “I suppose it could have been worse,” I say.<br />
<br />
“How so?”<br />
<br />
“She could have made you an octopus. Then you’d have to live in water and wouldn’t be able to make tea.”<br />
<br />
A loud clicking fills the room. I think it’s a laugh, because when Jan speaks again, she sounds amused. “I’ve never looked at it like that. I guess you’re right.”<br />
<br />
Behind me, the door opens. Someone lets out a scream and I hear feet running before the door closes again.
<br />
<br />
Jan sighs. “That happens so often. I usually don’t man the floor for that very reason. But one of my sales team just quit and no one else could fill the shift.”<br />
<br />
“Really?” I smile. “Not to show joy at your misfortune, but my son just started school and I’ve been thinking I’d like a parttime job.”<br />
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Without eyelids, it’s impossible for Jan’s eyes to widen. They do seem to get brighter though. “I can start you at fifteen an hour. When can you start?”<br />
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I glance at my watch. “I have four hours before I have to be home…”
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Above image is by Rose Tursi. I couldn't find this work on her website (it was on Pintrest) but you can get other things by her at <a href="http://www.tursiart.com/">www.tursiart.com</a></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The image was offered as a prompt by my Wording Wednesday Project. You can find the post and some other responses to it at <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2019/10/s3w2-and-creature-is-spider.html">https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2019/10/s3w2-and-creature-is-spider.html</a></span></i></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-14779970805983502092019-09-27T14:00:00.000-07:002019-09-27T14:44:34.327-07:00Cafe All Souls at 6:36 AM<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclT8a02tw0FlARgVtHOr9iNs6HZWem_uix7JwlB-too-qSC4tvBg1jX4XCcR-5uFLlwvUaLhkAKq1rqRkDxjpapv955wISzn6wzslWutbuDJRfJoDuK3bc2bfvJHa1peEdXgITJTd_7U/s1600/01+Mateo-Dineen-Warm-and-Fuzzy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="962" data-original-width="650" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclT8a02tw0FlARgVtHOr9iNs6HZWem_uix7JwlB-too-qSC4tvBg1jX4XCcR-5uFLlwvUaLhkAKq1rqRkDxjpapv955wISzn6wzslWutbuDJRfJoDuK3bc2bfvJHa1peEdXgITJTd_7U/s320/01+Mateo-Dineen-Warm-and-Fuzzy.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
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<br />
Marsh knows Sheelia wants him to ask about her trip to Hawaii. The hat on her pretty green head proclaims as much. (Well, actually, it says, “Aloha,” but that’s a clear introduction to conversation about the vacation.) He’s determined not to do it though, because talking about Sheelia’s trip would mean talking about Dylan.
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<br />
It would be easy to dismiss Marsh’s dislike of Dylan as jealousy, but it isn’t. When the shaggy red guy claims that Sheelia is like a sister to him, he’s actually telling the truth. But Dylan has always rubbed Marsh wrong. And it’s not hard to see why. I mean, really, what kind of monster takes his girlfriend to Hawaii? The furless kind, that’s who. The kind who never stops to think that maybe a tropical climate isn’t the best place for someone who walks around covered in thick hair to vacation and that maybe she would be happier with a trip to Iceland. Because with Dylan, everything is always about what’s best for him personally, and Sheelia’s just along for the ride.
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<br />
Of course, if Marsh said any of this, Sheelia would tell him he’s being unfair. Dylan’s not just furless; he’s a reptile. That he manages to survive winters in Minnesota is amazing and one can hardly expect him to to travel to places just as bad for his circulation.
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<br />
So the pair sit looking out the window of Cafe All Souls sipping their drinks in silence as they watch the falling snow.
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<br />
Belmont and Jinx sit under them in the lower level of the cafe, likewise quiet. If they were talking, there would be discussion of Jinx’s date last night, which Belmont knows she wants to talk about. He doesn’t though. You see, when he tells you Jinx is like a sister to him, he’s lying about it. But unfortunately for him, she classed him as family months ago, which is like years when you’re a mouse.
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<br />
So both pairs sit with much to talk about but no words spoken. And I, their faithful server, keep the drinks flowing and stick my nose into the business of neither mice nor monsters.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Above artwork is "Warm and Fuzzy" by Mateo Dineen. This piece and others can be seen on the artist's website at <a href="https://www.mateo-art.com/">https://www.mateo-art.com/</a> .</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">It was given as a prompt by Wording Wednesday. You can find the original post and other writer's responses at <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2019/09/s3w1-creature-is-warm-and-fuzzy-monster.html">https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/2019/09/s3w1-creature-is-warm-and-fuzzy-monster.html</a></span></i></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-21203947278275232472019-08-29T12:54:00.000-07:002019-08-29T12:54:15.627-07:00Three Little Humans<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-uT8Jl6itDjik4Gsxvm_vsGUXO2fWb1USbapbW3iU2JjiDi5C1wPethkozpKRIRRLP9rnAEoAG2FYuxRUHpsWo1t1PvAUpp_MFb1JmQHPQRimuoWDy76f6PkXJ7XRb8o7M9ExsZ3rG4/s1600/06+Winter+Scene+by+Eric+de+Kolb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="688" data-original-width="900" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-uT8Jl6itDjik4Gsxvm_vsGUXO2fWb1USbapbW3iU2JjiDi5C1wPethkozpKRIRRLP9rnAEoAG2FYuxRUHpsWo1t1PvAUpp_MFb1JmQHPQRimuoWDy76f6PkXJ7XRb8o7M9ExsZ3rG4/s320/06+Winter+Scene+by+Eric+de+Kolb.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The new queen’s edict says I’m not allowed to lead humans to their deaths anymore. It is seriously tempting, though. I mean, look at them! They’re traipsing about like complete fools!
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I know my companion has similar feelings as she chants, “Three little humans walking through the snow. Three little humans don’t know where to go!”
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<br />
They aren’t really little, though, not for humans. They’re full grown examples of the species, and male I’m pretty sure. They walk in a line, one after the other, as the second two try to keep their feet within the steps of the first even though that one is much larger than them. It’s quite ludicrous, particularly as the human in the lead seems to have no idea where he’s meant to being walking. He chooses his foot placements without any regard to drifts of snow or changes in terrain and is cutting in a direction that will eventually take him to the river a very long way from the bridge that crosses it.
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The man in the back keeps looking to the side, toward where the nearest human settlement is. He should be able to see the shape of their big religious building. What do they call those silly things? Kurches? It amazes me that humans think they can trap the divine within walls, but few things about humans make much sense.
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“The littlest knows,” Capella says. “He knows they’re going the wrong way. But he isn’t saying anything. Why is that?”
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“I assume the taller one outranks him. Would you tell the queen she’s wrong?”
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Capella shudders. There used to be three of us, too, until Litinay spoke out against Her Majesty to defend our right to mislead humans as our kind always has. Apparently although the queen wants to save human lives, she doesn’t care so much about those of sprytes. But don’t quote me on that.
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Her gaze on the one in the front, Capella tips her head to the side. “We’re not allowed to lead him into the river. But could we lead him into town? I bet he’d fight us. It could be fun. Even if he won’t die.”
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I chuckle. “And if he fights us and drowns… Well, we’ll honestly be able to tell the queen we were trying to save him.”
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After a crack of my knuckles, I move my fingers toward the lead human. My childhood magic instructors all insisted that I could lose the gesture, but my mind reading skill never seems to work without it. “Ah… There we go. He’s in love with a woman whom he’s not allowed to love…” Oh how I adore such tragedies! “And now he thinks she’s standing in the direction he should turn beckoning to him!”
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<br />
Capella claps as the man looks over at the illusion. He’s really bad at hiding his emotions, so his longing for the woman is clear. So is his fear. He knows she’s not really there, possibly because she is not the type to walk to another town and I’ve failed to give her a carriage. Making the sign of his god across his chest, the man stumbles faster toward the river.
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<br />
We’re both laughing as Capella says, “My turn!”
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<br />
I can’t see the illusion she creates, but she tells me, “Now there’s a path heading forward that clearly tells him not to go that way.”
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<br />
We bend over with the giggles as the man walks even faster toward the river.
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<br />
“Let’s do one of the others!” I latch onto the mind of the man middle in line and make him hear sounds coming from ahead.
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“Mister Paulson!” the man screeches. “Stop! There are wolves that way!”
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“No,” responds the leader. “It’s an illusion. It would seem these woods really are haunted by evil spirits who would lead us astray. I am certain this is the right path. They are trying to convince us to leave it by using their demonic magic. I myself have resisted several illusions designed to change my course.”
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<br />
The middle man swallows, his eyes moving around like he’s not certain if he should believe this or not. Both of the front men repeat the religious crossing of their chests while the middle one mumbles to his god to protect them from us. It’s all I can do not to fall from my perch in my amusement. My free hand clings to the tree branch and my wings flutter to maintain my balance despite my violent laughter.
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<br />
“Now the third man!” Capella chirps. The last in the row is still quiet, his head bowed like he’s concentrating on the ground. “Odd… I can’t reach his mind. Can you?”
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<br />
My fingers twitch toward the third one and I frown. “No, I can’t. Interesting…” I try to cast an illusion for him, a generic one involving a child calling for help, but he doesn’t so much as twitch in response. Very interesting indeed.
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<br />
At this point, the men have moved far enough that we have to leave our tree if we’re going to follow them. They’ve already provided enough entertainment for me to be tempted to stay put, but my inability to read the mind of the last one intrigues me enough to leap from my seat and flutter after him.
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<br />
Capella likewise springs off, her lavender wings having no trouble keeping up with me as we buzz through the increasing snowfall. The men all have umbrellas, although the snow is falling at enough of an angle that it’s hitting them anyway. They rush along, clearly chilled by the cold. Capella and I have the shelter of our magic spheres, though, so remain both dry and warm.
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<br />
“Should we do more?” Capella asks as she flies at my side.
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<br />
“Sure, why not?” We cast a few more illusions for both of the two we can affect. Each time, they resist our attempt to alter their course. Maybe we’re getting some of the details wrong, not trying hard enough to get them to truly believe that old friends yell for them or that dangers lurk the way they’re heading.
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<br />
When they get to the river, I send the image of a pretty female to them both. She begs them not to go forward, beseeching them to believe her that the river is real and that they will drown. Yet one after the other, they traipse right into it.
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I snort as the first one goes under the current. “You should have listened.”
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Capella shakes her head as the second on likewise sinks into the water. “Silly humans. We did warn you.”
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<br />
“Yes,” says the third human, still standing very much on the riverbank. “You did. But some people are beyond saving.”
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<br />
Capella and I both stiffen in surprise. Humans don’t usually see us. Of course, while they don’t always believe our illusions, they don’t usually fail to perceive them either, so maybe we shouldn’t be so shocked.
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<br />
The third man looks straight at us, touches the brim of his hat, and gives us a little nod before turning toward town.
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<br />
As we watch him go, I realize that it’s been some time since lunch. “Let’s go find some food.”
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“Lets,” says Capella. “Buns from the market?”
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<br />
“Perfect.”
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<br />
We propel ourselves toward town as well, intent on sweet pastries for tea. And if we happen to learn more about the odd human on the way, so much the better.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Above image is "Snow Scene" by Eric de Kolb. You can buy copies of it at <a href="https://fineartamerica.com/featured/a-winter-scene-eric-de-kolb.html">https://fineartamerica.com/featured/a-winter-scene-eric-de-kolb.html</a>.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The image was offered as a prompt on my writing prompt project Wording Wednesday, more information about which may be found at <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/">https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/</a></i></span></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-53614627251364907172019-08-26T15:26:00.001-07:002019-08-26T15:26:39.376-07:00Seeking Magic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9Ta05zk-r03Kkaz6CJfAq6y89vs4MaIqQaFTOvkWo7r0nTInmLRKP7c-YyylYHNNHO2dRDHr5XupbZxSYuAvamIuUlc2qcKg3bcUpdzIwbc1_3xhgn9xZeg3h679C20uU9TvHBgx7ME/s1600/05+AMatterOfTime+by+Matt+Dixon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="700" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9Ta05zk-r03Kkaz6CJfAq6y89vs4MaIqQaFTOvkWo7r0nTInmLRKP7c-YyylYHNNHO2dRDHr5XupbZxSYuAvamIuUlc2qcKg3bcUpdzIwbc1_3xhgn9xZeg3h679C20uU9TvHBgx7ME/s320/05+AMatterOfTime+by+Matt+Dixon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
“Zike!” the child calls. “Where are you? Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
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<br />
Zikon lets out a small sound of laughter. Not a loud one, but a subtle one. Their programing allows them to feel amusement, but the laugh is more for the girl’s benefit than theirs. It’s a clue, you see. Because although the girl has told them to come out, they know she doesn’t mean it yet. She’ll let them know when she becomes so frantic that the game is over. Until then, she’ll look through the forest in search of her friend. And hopefully in the process, she’ll find the surprise they’ve planted.
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<br />
“Zike! The leaves keep moving! They covered up your tracks! It’s no fair!”
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<br />
The robot lets out another chuckle, a little louder than the last one. This child hears this time and goes still. “I heard that!” She begins to creep in the right direction. “I know you’re here somewhere! You didn’t climb a tree, did you? We agreed no climbing!”
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<br />
Indeed, they did. Just last week one of the child’s friends fell from a tree. Zikon would never forgive themselves if something like that were to happen to their human. And for an artificial intelligence than can be easily ported into a new body when one wears out, never can last a very long time.
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<br />
The girl has made it to the other side of the tree Zikon lays behind when she spots something. It’s shiny like a gemstone, not shiny like the metal of Zike’s casing, but she stops anyway. Kneeling to the ground, she reaches for the shiny object. It sticks out like a rock, but when she tries to pick it up she realizes it’s attached to something buried. “Zike… I found something weird.”
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<br />
If Zikon had a face that allowed for smiles, they would smile now. You see, they planted the shiny object. It’s the top of a jar made of brightly painted glass, which the girl sees quickly as she pulls it from the soil without questioning why the dirt around it is packed so loosely.
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<br />
“Zike!” she exclaims. “There’s a map! I found a treasure map! Come see!”
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Feeling proud of themselves, Zikon climbs to their feet and goes to look. The rest of the day, they know, is going to be given over to hunting for a mysterious treasure. “Let me look.”
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<br />
The child reaches out and taps her robotic companion. “I found you!” she says as she holds up the map Zikon drew the night before and hid as she lay sleeping. “See this? It was left by a fairy! She says that if I follow all the clues and prove myself worthy, I’ll get something. What does that say?”
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Zikon pretends to read the note. “Enchanted treasure.”
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<br />
“Wow. I’ll get an enchanted treasure. I want one!”
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<br />
“Indeed,” says Zikon. “An enchanted treasure sounds very valuable.”
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<br />
“Oh, yes.” The girl nods with all the solemnity a six-year-old can muster. “They are. And very pretty. I will find it and it will make Loiuse Sinclair all kinds of jealous, because even if she found a note like this, she’s not smart enough to figure out where to go!”
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<br />
“And where do we go?”
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<br />
The girl tilts her head. “Well, that’s a picture of the waterfall. So I think we look near there.”
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<br />
“Very well,” says Zikon, somewhat wishing that they did have the ability to smile. “Lead on, my lady.”
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<br />
Grinning, the child leaps up and starts to run through the woods, her metal friend close behind her. When the girl grows up, she’ll come to realize that most of her childhood adventures had been orchestrated by her loving nannybot. But for today, the magic is real.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The above image is "A Matter of Time" by Matt Dixon, whose work may be found at <a href="https://www.mattdixon.co.uk/">https://www.mattdixon.co.uk/</a></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The image was offered as a prompt on my writing prompt project Wording Wednesday, more information about which may be found at <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/">https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/</a></i></span></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-49192866644972637042019-08-16T12:48:00.001-07:002020-02-18T17:14:38.384-08:00This Is NOT a Romantic Comedy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaHky2SqxHDcDl9whONCEfjOrtYrwnPSXYpkUxqRvthgWPsPj4pIapU_b2sMcjj8HBtUKn0PgdKdU0jCOOJ8fMr6cD7z6MD8p0_ArRRr_i10fL-bznV3-pZSVErQbJNqgikDQDueuWms/s1600/04+miss_by_wlop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1122" data-original-width="712" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaHky2SqxHDcDl9whONCEfjOrtYrwnPSXYpkUxqRvthgWPsPj4pIapU_b2sMcjj8HBtUKn0PgdKdU0jCOOJ8fMr6cD7z6MD8p0_ArRRr_i10fL-bznV3-pZSVErQbJNqgikDQDueuWms/s320/04+miss_by_wlop.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
In the genre of romantic comedy there is a trope called the meet-cute. Merriam Webster defines meet-cute as "a cute, charming, or amusing first encounter between romantic partners" and somehow bumping into each other in the rain would certainly qualify.
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<br />
So if this story was a romantic-comedy, or rom-com, when Yuki, Hayato, and their respective umbrellas approach each other in a downpour, something would happen to force an interaction. Perhaps Hayato's umbrella would spontaneously break, leading Yuki to offer him the shelter of her adorably pink cat-eared umbrella. Or maybe something would fall from the pocket of Yuki's hoodie and Hayato would pick it up, calling to her, "Hey, you dropped this!" Maybe they'd flirt, but it's also possible they'd bicker. Either way, they'd be together by the end of the story.
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<br />
This is not a rom-com, so you need not worry about reading onward if you’re one of those people who hates such sweetness.
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<br />
If this were a cyber-thriller, there would be a hand-off as the pair pass close to one another. Hayato would slip Yuki a thumb drive containing all the passwords used by some nation's government or perhaps a small harddrive hosting a virus that would siphon money from all online transactions would trade hands.
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<br />
This is not a cyber-thriller, which is good because I don’t understand computer systems sufficiently to go into details about high level hacking operations.
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<br />
If it were a more violent type of tale, perhaps one destined to appear as a film directed by someone like Quentin Tarantino, Yuki would reveal that her umbrella handle doubles as a sword as she slices through Hayato.
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<br />
This is not a violent story, either, so I'll be saved the discomfort of having to describe the way Hayato's entrails would trail out into the puddle of rain at his feet.
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<br />
No, this is a science fiction story.
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<br />
Yuki is a teenaged girl from a perfectly normal suburb of Tokyo. She ascribes to kuwaii aesthetics, does well in chemistry class although she struggles with physics, and is thinking of nothing more important than what form of snack she will eat when she gets home as she approaches and then passes by Hayato. She notices him, but nothing about him seems out of place or even particularly interesting to her, so unless something else happens, she will have forgotten about him before she reaches the end of the block.
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<br />
Hayato pays more attention to Yuki. He's intrigued by the cat ears on her umbrella and the adorable animal her sweatshirt. He wonders what sort of animal it is, but hasn't been on Earth long enough to have a good guess or to even know what a panda is if we were to identify the creature for him. His fledgling understanding of humanity tells him, accurately, that Yuki is a kindred-spirit to his sister back on Ilon. Hayato has never understood his sister, so clearly he has no chance at understanding Yuki. His job on Earth isn't learning to understand the humans though; he's here to… Honestly, he's not certain. He's here because he received orders telling him to be here and he is very much into following orders at all times without asking silly questions like, "But why?"
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<br />
It's really too bad this isn't a romantic comedy, because I feel poor uptight Hayato could learn a lot from forming a romantic bond with someone who doesn't take everything quite so seriously. But, alas, he passed by Yuki without any form of interaction occurring. They're heading in opposite directions and probably won't be seeing each other again.
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<br />
Hayato continues around a corner, now unable to see Yuki even if he turned around to look for her, which he has no reason to do. At least not until the explosion.
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<br />
He spins as the sound blasts down the street. Putting various details of the sound together tells him that what he's hearing is a blaster popular with a race of aliens known as the Han-el. The Han-el don't get along very well with Hayato's species and there are elaborate treaties in place that are supposed to keep the two peoples from every being on the same planet. Earth is well within the boundary of planets assigned to the Iloni, so what are the Han-el doing here? He wonders if maybe that's why his superiors sent him to Earth. Maybe they know the dratted Han-el are up to something.
<br />
<br />
This is not, in actual fact, the reason that Hayato has been sent to Earth. He was actually sent here because the daughter of his commanding officer has a crush on him and the commanding officer wants him to be far, far away from the daughter's sight in the hope this will also take him out of her mind.
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<br />
Hayato, knowing nothing about his commanding officer's daughter's crush, rushes forward, bent on defending Iloni interests and explaining to the Han-el, forcibly if necessary, that Earth is in Iloni territory.
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<br />
Meanwhile, Yuki has already forgotten about Hayato, but also noticed the not-so-subtle explosion behind her. She also turned, recognizing that an alien weapon was just used and that she needs to go explain, forcibly if necessary, that Earth is sovereign territory and aliens can't just go around blowing up parts of it. She’s already had to do this three times this month and is getting a little tired of it.
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<br />
Yuki's fingers reach for the golden cat necklace she wears around her neck and she whispers magic words known only to her and her fellow chosen catgirls. Within three heartbeats, she transforms into a human-sized tabby cat and lets out a magic-laden hiss.
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<br />
The pair close in on the Han-el, who looks a little sick over the fact that he's being closed in on. He had merely meant to flex his muscles, so to speak, for a merchant who was giving him a hard time, and hadn't expected any blow back from it.
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<br />
The merchant comes out of her shop holding a baseball bat. The old woman glares at the Han-el, accusing him of blowing a hole through her wall and demanding to know how he is going to pay for repairs.
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<br />
The Han-el looks at the old woman, who seems much more fierce than she did when he decided to mess with her. He doesn't look long though, because a blast of Yuki's magic slams into him while he's gawking and knocks him to the ground.
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<br />
The Han-el struggles to get up, but realizes he has nowhere to run. He can smell that Hayato is an Iloni but decides that's probably the safest direction to go. He's wrong about that. The safest way to go is into the shop, because once he's dodged the unexpectedly badass shopkeeper it's a straight line for the rear exit of the place. But he doesn't know about the backdoor, so he makes the mistake of sprinting towards Hayato.
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<br />
I haven't mentioned it before because it wasn't relevant until now, but Hayato has received extensive training on capturing fugitives, so he has the Han-el disarmed and on the ground in… well, not a heartbeat. But not much longer than a heartbeat.
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<br />
Yuki comes up behind him, still in feline form, and delivers a lecture to the fallen Han-el about how he, and all other aliens, need to get off of Earth. At some point, the Han-el protests that's she's singling him out and informs her that Hayato is also an alien. So then she lectures them both.
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<br />
Hayato protests, naturally. Earth is in his planet's region of influence and he is under orders to be here. While Yuki is yelling at him about how Earth doesn't concede to Iloni authority, the Han-el sneaks off.
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<br />
The argument ends when Yuki's phone makes a noise and she realizes that her mother has been texting her to bring dinner home for the last five minutes. Instantly, she returns to her human form to type back, contorting her body to keep the driving rain off of her phone screen, that she is on her way to the store now. Yuki tells Hayato that he must leave the planet immediately, but does nothing to enforce this before rushing away to purchase enough sushi for her family of five. This will require quite a bit of sushi as even though the twins are only six, they eat massive amounts of food.
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<br />
Hayato shakes his head at the retreating catgirl. He picks up his umbrella and holds it over his head as he moves on, even though he's been without its protection for a rather long while and is consequently soaked to the bone already.
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<br />
If this were a romantic comedy, Hayato might think of the girl he just met as he makes his way back to his new apartment and ponder why it was that he found her dripping hair somehow… attractive? In a cute sort of way... He might regret that he is going to upset her by staying on Earth, but he won't feel he has any choice in the matter. Then the pair will meet again in a week or so. Yuki will act like she's angry he's still on the planet, but will be secretly charmed by him.
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<br />
But it's not a romantic comedy. Right? So that’s probably not going to happen.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Above image is "Miss" by Wang Ling, who posts on Deviant Art as <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/wlop">wlop</a>.</span></i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="font-size: small;">The image was offered as a prompt on my writing prompt project Wording Wednesday, more information about which may be found at <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/">https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/</a></i></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-90023973989405971842019-08-08T14:08:00.001-07:002019-08-08T14:19:55.817-07:00On the Edge of the Sea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOw_uP-AIz8gHjjA0RcoMIEDer3RcICliBEpx-Uk0G3cwbLxyNs7rC2Yj5yJjUHsdVTdTWr89G5Hdy6RKg2nHxbWoKy1f0l1x2BUsWDlgz1uAq-4PNWCXdLXSTbGgvyzwkAqBvZAR9d_s/s1600/03+Looking+Out+to+Sea+by+Winslow+Homer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="640" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOw_uP-AIz8gHjjA0RcoMIEDer3RcICliBEpx-Uk0G3cwbLxyNs7rC2Yj5yJjUHsdVTdTWr89G5Hdy6RKg2nHxbWoKy1f0l1x2BUsWDlgz1uAq-4PNWCXdLXSTbGgvyzwkAqBvZAR9d_s/s320/03+Looking+Out+to+Sea+by+Winslow+Homer.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Overhead, the sky regards me with the same dispassionate grey as my lover’s eyes as the breeze blowing off the sea ruffles my hair despite the shawl I have over my head. “It’s the perfect time,” Eethea tells me. “I don’t understand why you want to wait.”
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My teeth dig into my lip as I try to think of the words to explain with. See, the thing is, I don’t want to wait. Because I don’t ever want to down another ship, whether it be this storm or five storms from now. Back home, everyone warned that if I moved to land, I’d eventually start to feel this way. I didn’t believe them, though it seems I should have. The smell of salt rolling off the sea still fills me with comfort, but I’ve become too acclimated to shore.
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“You skipped the last feast,” Eethea reminds me, as though I could have forgotten either the massive argument we had about it or intense pain I felt as my covenmates gorged themselves on the sailor’s life forces while I stayed hungry. “People are already assuming I’m your daughter. If you keep aging like this, they’ll be thinking you’re my grandmother soon.”
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“Would that be so bad?” I ask, my eyes moving over the rolling waves before us. Their peaks are growing taller and white caps have appeared across the bay to which we were exiled decades ago. “At least then people wouldn’t think we’re sinful for loving each other.”<br />
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Her arms fold over her worn human-style dress. “And why do you care if they think we’re sinful? Sure, in Kesh they might stone us for it, but in Ahland they’re all pacifists, so they just shake their heads and move on. How does them shaking their heads harm you?”<br />
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I let out a long breath. “That’s part of the problem,” I tell her. “You’re asking me to kill someone who isn’t willing to kill me.”<br />
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“So, what? You want to wait for a boatload of Keshmen who happen to be here when a storm hits? Or do you want to drown them without the cover of a storm?”<br />
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“Well, that is a law I’m surprised we’re still abiding by,” I say, mainly as a way to deflect the conversation. I don’t think I really want to drown people from Kesh either.<br />
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Eethea rolls her eyes. “First off, it’s a good rule because we don’t want to risk a survivor having seen us and that’s less likely if we strike during a storm. And secondly, they may not be willing to kill you for being intimate with another woman, but they most certainly would if they knew you were yiishka.”<br />
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Yiishka… What the humans call merfolk. I’ve been on land long enough that hearing words from my first language seems strange.
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Placing her hand over mine, Eethea goes on. “I understand that they’re intelligent animals with a complex social structure and deep felt emotions, but they eat whales, who are not only all of those things but also more friendly. And who don’t eat them back. Really, humans are terrible.”
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“I know…” I turn my palm over so that I can grasp Eethea’s fingers. “I just… Maybe if it were a one-on-one trade, I’d feel better about it. I’d find someone truly horrible and steal their life to fuel mine. But I need to kill at least a dozen people to make much of a difference, and more would be better.”
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“Only because you’ve waited so long.”<br />
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“Yes, well, I’ve already done that.”<br />
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With a gentle tug, my lover pulls me closer to her side and I lower my head to her shoulder. She tilts her head until her cheek rests against my hair. “I know it’s hard, baby. But there’s only so long you can go without eating before you’ll die. Don’t do that to me.”<br />
<br />
Of course Eethea found a way to make it about her. “And what about the people who love the sailors? It’s okay to doom them to widowhood?”<br />
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“They’ll only live another few decades at most, then they’ll escape from their pain. I could live another thousand years with a hole in my heart where you’re supposed to be.”<br />
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“If you keep murdering people,” I mutter.<br />
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Eethea stiffens and straightens her head so that it’s no longer touching me. “Since when has it been wrong to survive? We’ve tried taking the life energy from other creatures you deemed less deserving of life and it didn’t work. You remember that, right?”<br />
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“Yeah, I do.”<br />
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“So what choice do we have?”<br />
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That’s obvious. “We could grow old and die.”<br />
<br />
“Right. Which isn’t really a choice. I don’t know why the Great Mother designed us this way, beloved, but she did. And she wants us to live.”<br />
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“Now you get religious on me?” I ask as I sit up. “Most of the time, you think the gods aren’t real.”
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She shrugs. “Fine, then. We evolved this way and evolution wants us to live.”
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“No, it just wants us to procreate. And neither of us are doing that. We accepted exile to avoid doing that.” Sometimes I can’t remember why. The Queen didn’t want us to break up or anything, she just wanted us to get pregnant and help grow a new generation below the sea. Would it really have been so bad to spawn some brats and raise them with Eethea back home? Sex with a male doesn’t seem like it would be pleasant, but it’s not like it would take terribly long to get it over with either. “If anyone wants us to live, it’s Queen Eilka. She’s the one so upset about the declining population that she’s willing to toss her own daughter out of the sea.”<br />
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“Yeah, well, screw my mother.”<br />
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I nod. “Dying would do that.”<br />
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Eethea scowls. “I may have Mommy Issues, but not enough of them to kill myself to spite her. And I’m certainly not going to let you die just to flip her off.”<br />
<br />
“Is it really killing ourselves, though? To let nature take its course?” My eyes go back to the ocean. The tide is coming in and we should move soon, either going back to the city or out into the water. Sitting on the shore wet isn’t an option as saltwater will turn us back into our aquatic forms.<br />
<br />
“Skiya, if a human stops eating and dies, do people say it was an accident or do they say he starved himself to death?”
<br />
<br />
I study the water as I think about that. She has a point. “But…”<br />
<br />
“Humans don’t usually eat humans,” she says calmly. “But sometimes they do. If they’re somewhere with no other food and it’s the only way to survive, they absolutely will eat either other.”
<br />
<br />
“I’m not sure that really happens. It might be a myth.”
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<br />
“Well, I am sure. Because I’ve met humans, and while they’re sentimental, they’ll do whatever it takes to live. So maybe a few of them wouldn’t eat a party member, but I honestly believe most of them would if their survival were at stake.” She twists in order to take my chin in her hand and turn my face toward her. “This is no different. Even if you say now that you’re willing to deny yourself the energy you need to live, do you really have the willpower to slowly starve to death?”
<br />
<br />
I hate the fact that the answer to that question is probably no.
<br />
<br />
“Come on.” Eetha stands up and holds her hand out to help me to my feet. “Let’s get in the water and then decide.”
<br />
<br />
Once in the water, my thought process will change. In the water, I’ll no long see myself as anything akin to the humans. In the water, the sailors will seem like food and not people. But I let myself walk to the surf anyway.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The above image is Looking Out to Sea by Winslow Homer.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The image was offered as a prompt on my writing prompt project Wording Wednesday, more information about which may be found at <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/">https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/</a></span></i></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4334406575176745558.post-10631265024575927602019-08-01T13:21:00.000-07:002019-08-08T14:06:08.240-07:00Embracing Destiny<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik60rg6flMcOkNiXhrgIJeDAegK6yxOABFstePVirs1kMjrrXX40Dv0jiirrV3BTjgo1NfgKDRsXd0kuFl50teY2DQUBxhavJR2FQHG0xNy3UMNnUen1cW8yKam5G4idfu48NIh_R_GxA/s1600/02+Kissed+by+Starlight+by+Lisa+Falzon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="725" data-original-width="570" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik60rg6flMcOkNiXhrgIJeDAegK6yxOABFstePVirs1kMjrrXX40Dv0jiirrV3BTjgo1NfgKDRsXd0kuFl50teY2DQUBxhavJR2FQHG0xNy3UMNnUen1cW8yKam5G4idfu48NIh_R_GxA/s320/02+Kissed+by+Starlight+by+Lisa+Falzon.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>
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My grandmother says that the one good thing about humanity trashing the planet to the point that we encapsulated our cities under domes is that now you can see the stars at night. Apparently when she was a child, you could see the moon and maybe two or three stars from a city the size of ours. Of course, between the chemical pollution, the light pollution, and the dome itself, we should really be seeing even less rather than the vast array we’re treated to every night. And who’s to say which is better, really? At least my grandmother’s two or three stars were real and not projections.
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<br />
Azealia knows the stars are fake, but she loves them anyway. To her, I think their lack of authenticity actually makes them more beautiful, because now they speak of the human need to create beauty and thus provide her with evidence that our species really isn’t as bad as it seems.<br />
<br />
One of the things I love about Azealia is her faith in the basic goodness of humans. And it’s that faith that allows her to love me even though I don’t share it.
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<br />
It was the stars that brought us together the night we met. I was walking across Founders Park after getting off my shift at the pizza joint that was my first place of employment when I came across a dusky-skinned girl with a bright blue pixie cut and golden eyes who was doing the strangest thing. She had an easel set up and was painting a skyscape, a realistic portrayal of the multitude of astral features decorating the dome.
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I longed to ask why she was doing this in the middle of the night in the center of a park when the projection was public domain and could have been covering her ceiling at home, but actually asking seemed intrusive. Even stopping to watch her seemed like I was overstepping, but I couldn’t help it. I told my feet to walk on, but they refused to obey me.
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<br />
After a bit, she looked over and me, smiled, and answered the question I hadn’t asked. “The stars aren’t meant to be seen from your living room.”<br />
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“Yet you’re painting them,” I pointed out before I could think through it enough to convince myself not to.
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Azealia nodded serenely. She does most things serenely, her soul as infused with calm as mine is permeated with tension. “Yes, but the painting isn’t supposed to be a real sky. It’s supposed to be my perception of the sky.”
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My eyebrows pulled together as I thought about that.
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“Look closer.” She stepped to the side in invitation and I accepted by drawing near.
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Up close, the painting was less realistic than I’d first taken it to be. It was clearly based on the actual sky, but the stars were in different places and the swirling nebulas were less subtle. I’d never studied art, but this seemed like art.
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“It’s wonderful,” I told her. Then I walked on, like a complete fool. I beat myself up over that all the following week. I should have stayed and talked more, tried to figure out if maybe she was into girls, although I wanted to be friends even if she wasn’t. I should have asked her to do something with me, or asked her if her artwork was for sale anywhere, or at least gotten her name.<br />
<br />
When she walked into the pizzeria two weeks after we first met, she was on a date with a gorgeous woman with ebony skin and a laugh that reminded me of Christmas. So she was clearly interested in women, at least some of the time. And she remembered me, which I told myself must have meant something even though she seemed clearly in love with her companion.
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<br />
Azealia became a regular. So did the woman with the ebony skin, but that was alright because Clarice was amazing too. She was tall and toned, but also incredibly smart and outrageously funny. She was lead singer in a band I’d never heard of before but soon came to adore. They were called Under the Starlight, a name Azealia had come up with.
<br />
<br />
It was Clarice who asked me out first. For a second, I was confused. I’d never seen either woman with anyone else, so it hadn’t occurred to me that they were polyamorous. But they were. I never had been before, but as I thought about Clarice’s invitation to a traveling musical, I realized I was already in love with both of them.
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<br />
Years passed. I finished college and started managing an art gallery with Azealia. Clarice’s band grew popular enough to support touring, but she never drifted away from us. Azealia does all Under the Starlight’s artwork and I run their online merchandise store. We’re happy, the three of us. Sometimes it makes me nervous, being so content, as though it’s tempting the universe to assault us.<br />
<br />
I look down at the shirt I’m packaging to ship. It features the poster for Under the Starlight’s Embrace Your Destiny tour. A young woman in white stands on a platform with her arms open to the sky. Her build and her long dark hair are mine, symbolizing how all three of us are a part of our story, how we’re each other’s destinies.
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Destiny isn’t a concept I ever thought I’d believe in. Yet, somehow, when I go home and fall into the duel embraces of my beloveds, I do.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s1600/divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1100" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNTIb4mBduNaeJHSUBHtY2NyVSzShXIxgsdruuiqXy9MVHbt6Ed5OK9NomRYwuwpdtODAvUwztgxjgw_r1D7H1-VldQ6zQS7gYRxZfcAQZ6TWdIykiChgxF_TSvB5ilXgpCu3eVHmj-o/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The above image is "Kissed by Starlight" by Lisa Falzon. Ms Falzon's works can be found at <a href="https://lisa-falzon.com/">https://lisa-falzon.com/</a>. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The image was offered as a prompt on my writing prompt project Wording Wednesday, more information about which may be found at <a href="https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/">https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/</a></i></span></div>
Andora Brokawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16505502496446987390noreply@blogger.com0