Leaves

The sky was overcast, advertising a melancholy future with grim satisfaction. Nick glanced up, smiled cheerfully at the clouds and looked back down to the uneven sidewalk. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his light windbreaker and nudged a chunk of concrete with his foot as he walked by. A breeze picked up, lifting the small piles of dead leaves and tumbling them across the road with a scraping, rattling sound that made Nick look up again.

Homes was coming at him from the other direction, and Nick brightened, waving to his friend.

“What are you doing here, Homes?” Nick asked once they were close enough for their voices to be heard over the breeze and scattering leaves.

“Coming to check up on you,” Homes said, giving Nick a smile that wasn't nearly as exuberant as Nick's had been.

“Well, I'm doing fine,” Nick said, looking away from his friend, his smile fading.

They didn't say anything for a few minutes. Leaves dragged across the concrete and asphalt like nails on a chalkboard.

“I didn't think I'd see you again,” Nick said finally.

“I—” Homes started slowly, but couldn't seem to think of anything to finish the statement.

They walked along in silence, the cross around Homes's neck glinting dully in the faded light.

Inspiration: Leaves scraping across the road towards me.

Autumn Snapshot

Kristin leaned into the wind, letting the infectiousness of its rushing laughter in her ears bring a smile to her face. She noticed the cold, but it didn't bother her. The creek bubbled below where she was perched, audible when the wind took a moment to breathe before blowing once more. The sparkling water clashed over the rocks and splashed into divets and pools, taking its time on the journey to the larger brook downstream.

Her hands grasped the weathered rock, fitting into the worn gashes and old cracks. The rock was rough – the calloused hands of an old worker, now retired, but forever bearing the token of his youth. Fluffy moss brushed her thumb, the green carpet attempting to soften the rock's harder edges.

The smell of earth whirled about her, reminding her of the place's age. The woody smell of tree bark mingled with the sweet odor of falling leaves and the old, indefinable one of moss and dirt and slow decay. The wind that carried the fragrance to her had a scent all its own – one of cold and crisp winter's chill. The combination of these smells was the unmistakable fragrance of autumn. She could taste the sweet, cold, earthy air on her tongue.

Kristin tilted her head back and the let the frigid sprites of autumn tangle their playful fingers in her curly hair, relaxing into the rhythmic pull and tug of their play.

Inspiration: a brief moment

Loss Without Gain

“Marlita,” his voice said. It was the last thing she wanted to hear at that moment, lying in bed, thinking.

“There's... nothing you can say, Alph,” she said, realistically, logically – painfully. She wished there was something he could say. She wished for that harder than she'd wished for a lot of things in her life.

“I know.” He sighed, behind her head.

She could feel his breath ruffle her hair. He shifted positions; she imagined him, head on his arm, staring at the back of her head, eyebrows crinkled together like they always did when he was worried or sad. Or both. He moved again, and she felt his scratchy cheek against her shoulderblade, his forehead on the back of her neck.

“They could be wrong,” he said, but his voice was dead.

“Don't,” she said simply, and they both were silent.

He breathed in her hair. She let the tears fall singly to the pillow. Neither of them slept.

Inspiration: Reading arguments for and against abortion. These are two more characters from my original series. Sorry to throw all of these people out there -- but this is a concept I've always sort of thought of for the two of them, (that they wanted to have children but were unable) so when the idea hit, they were the logical people to use.

Imposter

“That's not Ceilear,” Karl pointed out casually.

“How do you know?” Carvin asked, giving the man a suspicious look.

Karl smiled, a smug look that suited his face all too well, sheerly from its overuse. He launched into his explanation with fervor, gaining the attention of Nre and the others, as well as the frowns from the fairy coalition.

“Ceilear always bites her thumbnail when she's nervous, as she would be now, being thrust before her mother and father hoping they would recognize her.”

“But we'd always—” Nre started to say, but Karl put up a hand in her direction.

“She worries,” he said flatly. “If you'd spent more time with her before she became the singing harp of Ladyra, you would know that.”

“How do you—” Carvin began, suspicious look now much more pronounced on his face.

“Can I finish my explanation before we start discussion the seemingly ever-present issues with my character?” Karl asked, a little sharply. Both royals glared, but didn't say anything else.

“Ceilear bites her thumbnail when she's nervous,” Karl said again, looking at the blonde beauty in front of him who was now idly chewing on her nail. “And this vixen started as soon as I said something. Examine the nail, however, and you'll find it almost untouched. This woman has been twisting her fingers – apparently her nervous habit. Also, Ceilear always sits primly and properly, as this woman does, with the exception of her feet. I don't believe I've ever seen her ankles uncrossed. Furthermore, this woman's attention easily contradicts what would be Ceilear's reaction; desperate looks, not only to her parents, but also to her brother, whom she would recognize immediately as being among the guardsmen.”

Having decided at some point during his monologue that it would be grander to take to his feet, Karl now regained his seat with a flourish.

Inspiration: Wondering if people might recognize each other by little habits instead of faces. The characters are a set from my original series, and while this may or may not actually make it into any of my stories, it was nonetheless amusing to write. Karl is one of my favorites.

Dehumanization

Mandolin hefted the tool, face emotionless, and waited for the men to give him the nod. The prisoner was hiccoughing in panicked, short breaths, choking on his own spit and whining a little. They always got like this, right before. They could be stoic as the stone they were lying on until just before – then they always got like scared squirrels.

The man on the left muttered something harshly and held the prisoner more firmly in place. His head was covered in a stained cloth sack, drawn around the neck; his body was stretched into a shallow groove in a slab of rock, to keep him from rolling out, and his head was set, quivering, on the flat end. The man nodded. Mandolin stepped forward, his body going through the motions with hardly more than a command from his mind. The step, the sweep, the fluid arc of the tool – it was beautiful, choreographed, willowy, powerful.

The head of the tool came down on the head of the prisoner as it always did, in exactly the right spot. The prisoner screamed an instant before the tool hit, but then there was the sound of bones crumbling, the give on the tool's head once he broke through, and the red stain adding to the rest on the sack. The prisoner's scream was cut off. He was taken over in trembles; piteous moans escaped him for a few bare seconds, and then he was still.

The men carried the body out, leaving Mandolin to clean before the next execution. He systematically scrubbed the tool, the stone, and the floor until all was pristine and unblemished, ready for the next prisoner.

And then, Mandolin knelt by the stone and cried.

Inspiration: Reading an argument against capital punishment.

The Ugly Prince

Image via Wikipedia

Thad looked over the ballroom, impatiently searching for the one who would be his future wife. She was the daughter of a Baron, and she was allegedly quite pretty – unlike himself. As a prince, Thad had been flattered and adored his whole life, but at the tolerable age of twenty-one he had come to realize that he was not handsome by any means.

He was too short, a bit too thick around the middle, and was the owner of a nose of unsavory size. His eyes were too round, and his ears stuck out. Really, the only redeeming physical quality he had (one he had heard praised to the skies more often than he wanted to remember) was his smile. It was charming and bright, as he was told. Further inspection proved the lauding advisors to be more or less right. The prince thusly made it his personal ambition to smile as much as possible, so as to keep from looking monstrously hideous.

He was a good man, all things considering, despite his physiognomy. He was friendly, tender, just, and logical. In short, he was all a prince should be, except handsome. Money can bypass looks, however; this was how he was settled with such a pretty bride. He endeavored to be sure she was a moderately pleasant person, too, but the only people who could vouch for her character were the same ones who said Thad looked like a gift from the gods. Understandably, Thad did not have high hopes for Lady Joslyn, whoever she may be.

“Baron Hiles and Lady Joslyn,” the announcer said, his voice barely ebbing above the music and chatter that filled the room.

Thad looked to the entrance quickly and caught a glimpse of the edge of Lady Joslyn's dress, but the rest of her had disappeared into the crowd. She would find him soon, he knew, so he took that opportunity to drink the rest of his champagne and double-check his attire. He'd just determined that he looked as trim as ever he would when a vision in sage materialized in front of him.

He quickly decided that he was in love. Even as she smiled her fake smile and fed him her fake words, he knew that no one else in the world would ever make him happy. And one day, he knew he would make her happy, too.

Inspiration: The story of the ugly prince that my sister told, mentioned in an earlier post. I'll be fleshing it out, more or less, in the next few posts. I'm not sure yet whether it will be a complete short story or merely some plot fragments; I suppose we'll see.

Skate Rink

Image by The Real Estreya via Flickr

“Who else is coming?” Bren asked, tapping his shoes to the rhythm of the song on the car radio.

“Michelle at least,” Ethan said. “And Hannah and Ashlee and David, I think. Michelle said she was bringing a friend.”

“That's a nice group,” Bren said, getting out of Ethan's car.

He was getting better at keeping his eyes above the neck as the weather grew warmer. The additional inches he'd grown since last year might have helped. Although, they didn't help at all when it came to looking down at girls and accidentally glancing down their shirts...

But! He was getting better at that, too. Standing a safe distance away, keeping his eyes on their eyes, and actually paying attention to what they said tended to help. It took some effort, but he was getting better at it.

Still, he found himself wishing it was fall and winter again. He was notified by the quick glance-and-look-away's he was receiving from the girls there that he probably had a scowl on. He checked his expression back into a pleasant one, was distracted by a girl in very short shorts and a low-cut top, and yanked his eyes back to the entrance of the skate rink.

“Geez, Bren,” he muttered in annoyance under his breath. “Horny much?”

Ethan didn't notice – he was not-so-subtly looking over a group of girls leaning against the wall near the door. They nudged each other and smiled. Ethan smiled back. Bren smiled vaguely in their direction, then elbowed Ethan in the door when it looked like he was going to stop and talk.

“One ticket and rollerblade rental,” Bren told the man behind the counter.

A few minutes later, they ran into the rest of the group near the back of the row of lockers. Ethan greeted Michelle with enthusiasm – much more enthusiasm, Bren noted with relief, than the girls outside the door. There were more people than Ethan had thought. Nikki was there, too, and Brittany. Some other people he didn't recognize were talking with the others; he assumed they were from Stenson.

* * *

“Look, Michelle,” April said, eyes closed. “My head kills. I don't think I should go.”

“Your head always kills,” Michelle said suspiciously, standing over April's bed with her hands on her hips. “I don't think you want to go.”

“No, seriously. I just took some Tylenol, like, an hour ago, and my head feels like it's going to pound out of my brain. I mean, wait.”

She paused, confused.

“You have that backwards,” Michelle sighed. “Here, take some Motrin. You're probably just dehydrated. You have to come! I invited Chris and Chloe, too. They don't know anyone else.”

“They know you,” April pointed out, eyes still closed.

“Yeah, but...”

“You want to hang out with Ethan,” April moaned. “Fine. Get me a bottle of water. But if you say one word about Bren, I will punch you. In the face.”

“Got it,” April said quietly. “I'll get you water. Go put on something cute.”

“This is cute enough,” April said, not moving.

Michelle took in the holey jeans and tee-shirt.

“At least put on those cute appliqued shorts we got at AE.”

“Fine.”

Not long after, they were at the skate rink, meeting up with everyone except Ethan and Bren, who hadn't arrived yet. Her head was starting to feel better, so she didn't have a hard time making conversation with the two people from Stenson that the others didn't know.

--

Inspiration: A smaller section of a larger story in the works. I wanted to see how this Zemanta thing worked, mainly, but I hope you enjoyed the window into April's world. You know you love the snazzy skate photo Z found. *grin*

Revisited

Image via Wikipedia

Note: These are several descriptions I've been working on for the rewrite of an old story. No, I don't know why there are random italics. Sorry about that.

--

Greyson estate was at its finest that evening in early spring. The sun was starting to set behind the large hill the shadowed the archery range, but there was still plenty of light to accommodate the lone boy pulling the bowstring taut. He loosed an arrow; it struck close to the center. The boy let out a puff of frustration and pulled another arrow to his bow.

Nearer to the house, a trim stable – well looked after and well used – let out a few whinnies as the stable hands brushed the horses clean of all their daily grime. There were many horses at Greyson, ready to accommodate whatever need the Duke thought up. The horses were especially fine; the Duke was fortunate enough to have made acquaintance with a man who knew what to look for in horses.

A worn path led from the stable to the manor house. It was a familiar sort of house, furnished lushly with rich, comfortable furniture. The small, well kept garden could be seen from the windows in the study, where a teenaged boy was slumped at the table, sweaty from being at the archery range and wondering why his father wanted to see him. The older man began to speak in his usual long winded manner, spreading his hands wide for effect. ...

--

Cameron ducked low over Aiden's neck, urging her to a canter. The mare was reluctant, but she eventually smoothened her gait and took long strides. The path beneath her hooves was packed dirt, damp with recent rain. The fog of a hot rainfall lingered in the valleys between the trees. Cameron could feel it wick away the warmth in his calves, tight as they were to the body of his horse.

His face was damp with sweat, but the humid air cooled the heat, though it didn't dry his face very much. This path along the outskirts of the castle grounds gave him full view of the beautiful Grendathian mountains, stark on the horizon. The sun was setting, glistening on the everlasting snow at their peaks and throwing their roughness into sharp relief.

Soon the path curved away from the mountains and toward the west, where the sun was hidden by the grove of trees planted by Cameron's forefathers to block the castle from the town. “We have enough scrutiny as it is,” they had said, and so the trees had come to be. There were few trees anywhere else near the royal palace. They grew in more abundance further from the mountains, though it didn't seem anyone knew exactly why. People said that all the trees were cut down and burnt long ago in a war of the Magics, but Cameron wasn't so sure about that.

The fog licked his arms as he rode through the shadows, slippery tongues evaporating as soon as they had formed. It blew through his hair: water through flame.

The path curved again, toward the castle, and Cameron began to slow Aiden down for the final stretch. She broke back into a trot as they began to pass his mother's Grey Garden. It was something she had once seen in her travels in the North as a young woman. In the mountains, the people made gardens of stone and dried wood, arranged in patterns. Cameron thought it looked bleak and hopeless, but his mother thought it was simple and soothing.

He lifted a hand to her as he passed; she was sitting on the granite bench – a sliver of color against the garden. She wore a dark colored dress, but her skin was fair and her hair as red as Cameron's. On her, it looked auburn and regal – not fiery or rebellious at all. She was serene. She was perfect. She was always perfect.

She smiled her calm smile at him as he rode by, then looked back to her Grey Garden.

When they returned to the stables, Cameron dismounted and wiped his forehead. Sweat and condensation left a smear on his white sleeve.

“Sir, your father has a message." ...

Ugly

So, this isn't really a fictional post. Just a thought: one that I can't fully describe in a oneshot.

Last weekend, I had the privilege of walking the beach with three ladies full of imagination. Once we'd walked the beach, we settled on the rocky divider between the public beach and the channel for the boats, and we watched the sun set. Colors splashed the sky as you might expect them to in a sunset over the water. A few sailboats and motorboats interrupted the calm surface of the water, but they didn't bother us.

After a few minutes of silence, my youngest sister began begging me for a story; the scenery had inspired her as it had inspired me. I held off for a few minutes, but eventually gave in. I was pressed to retell "the one with the dresses out of nuts". I did intend to tell just the story requested (which was incidentally a hodge-podge of many fairy tales, including Catskin, Goose Girl, and Cinderella) but my muse became distracted and the story ended up being a new twist on Catskin, and that was all.

I was reprimanded for telling the story wrong, but half-jokingly, and then the lady next to me was supplicated for a story. After a few minutes, she gave in and told us the first part of the tales of the Selkie Prince. Then it was the third girl's turn, and she made up a lovely tale from her head (a concept from it inspired me so, that I might write about soon). Finally, it was my sister's turn, and I waited with anticipation to see just how much we were alike.

I was not disappointed. The story she told may have been a little cliche, but she knew no better. It was well told, with description and plot in all the right places. It went something like this, though my memory dims. The sleepy silence on the pier does not aid one's memory.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl. She was the daughter of a rich lord who owned a lot of land in the country. The king was jealous of the land, but he did not want to steal or kill to gain the fertile grounds, so he devised a sly plan. He met with the lord, and together they agreed that marriage between the lord's daughter and the king's son would be most beneficial. The lord gave most of the lands to the king and the son as his daughter's dowry.

Now, the daughter was quite angry with her father. She did not want to marry the prince, for he was ugly. He was short, and he was chubby. His nose was too big. His eyes were squinty. But all her pleas came to naught, because, though her father was distraught that he had caused her so much distress, there was just no going back on a deal with the king. And so it came to be that in a few months, the daughter was married to the prince.

The prince loved her as soon as he laid his eyes upon her, but she did not love him. She was extremely unhappy, even though he loved her, and she wished she could run away, but she knew she couldn't. One day, as she was taking a walk in the wood, she came upon a Tree of Heaven. She collapsed beneath it and sobbed out her tale of woe to its flowering branches. When she'd finished her story, a tiger pounced out of the tree. Though she was scared, she soon found that the tiger was like a tame kitten under her hand.

When she returned to the palace, the prince was fascinated with the tiger and tried to train it for battle. The tiger didn't listen to the prince; he only responded to the girl's sweet voice. He followed her around and did everything she commanded it to. The prince wouldn't give up, however. He continued to try to train the tiger, but the tiger turned wild on him and injured a man. The prince ordered the beast killed, much to the girl's great anger and sorrow.

She went back to the Tree of Heaven and told it what had happened. This time, a lion pounced out of the tree. It would not listen to her, however, when she called to it and tried to stroke its mane. It listened only to the unspoken desires of her heart. The murderous anger and grief pounding in the girl's heart gave it direction: it loped into the palace and found the prince. Before the prince had time to call for assistance, the lion had killed him.

The girl threw her arms around the lion's neck and kissed it, and it turned into a charming, handsome prince before her very eyes. They were married, and they lived happily ever after.

I was quite startled by the ending; I had been expecting (foolishly, I suppose) the girl to realize that she could be happy with the ugly prince, since he loved her so! The girl's wishes obviously put a rift between them, and if she had just opened her eyes and realized that her husband loved her very much and only wanted to make her happy, none of this would have happened!

Saddened by the cruel destruction of the ugly prince, I covered up my nettled attitude and listened as the lady beside me told the second part of the Selkie's tale. Was I ever like that at that age? I wondered. Was being pretty all that mattered to me, then? Did I really believe that as long as two people were pretty, they would be happy together? We were consequently there at the beach in order to attend a wedding, in which both people were fairly pretty, though the woman was, in my opinion, far more so.

She possesses that natural beauty that needs no cosmetics or pretty dresses to bring it out. I have always thought her quite beautiful, and when she came back from getting her make-over for the wedding, I was set entirely off-balance. I don't believe I'd ever seen her with more than lip gloss on, and here she was: lipsticked, eye make-up-ed, blushed, mascara-ed, and eyebrows plucked. I didn't recognize her, and I didn't like it. It didn't fit her character at all.

Maybe the prince's face fit him, too. Maybe he wasw ugly, but he wouldn't look right any other way. Once you got to know him, he was a great guy. He was easy to love, a loving man: a passionate one. He might have been a lover of beauty, and an optimistic personality might have been his. He fell in love with his wife, a beautiful, sun-kissed woman who knew how to conduct herself with deportment and kindness. She knew how to be a princess, and she was beautiful even in sleep. He counted himself lucky to have a radiant bride, supposing that such a sweet face could hold no other expression.

But all her eyes saw in his awed, hopeful expression was a nose too large to be stately, eyes set too close together, and a man in need of a few more inches of height and a few less around the waist. She didn't see that his smile, though crooked, was genuine and fair. She didn't see that the other women at the balls stayed to talk with him, not out of pity, but because he complimented them, and he meant it expecting nothing in return. She didn't see that the men smiled around him, and that the air couldn't help but be warmer wherever the prince walked.

Everyone loved him except his own wife.

His odd and ugly looks were a part of him no one would wish away; a man so kind and with a flawless face would be too good to be true. This way, he seemed human. People feared her, with her angelic appearance, but the prince's rustic, homely face made him approachable. He was an earnest man, one intent on his people, and one wanting to do right.

And by the hateful wish of a beautiful girl, he was killed. Where is the justice in that? The prince could have complained to the tree, and perhaps a lion could have killed the girl. That would be more just. But, the prince never complained. Though he must have known his wife hated him, he didnot separate from her, send her away in shame, accuse her of having a lover, or even ship her quietly off to a summer home by the sea. No, night after night, he slept next to her in bed, though she was cold as ice with loathing. Day after day, he ate across the table from her. Week after week, he danced with her at balls. Always, he had hope that she would love him.

And his hope brought about his downfall.

Without intending it, it seemed my sister made a great life point; optimism and hope cannot always save you. But the prince lived well and fully. I don't think I could have said the same for the girl. If I had to choose between a shorter, happier life or a longer, bitter one, I would choose the shorter in an instant. I suppose I shouldn't grieve for the prince. After all, he didn't grieve for himself. And maybe, in ten years, the girl will realize how she wronged him, and perhaps she will change.

Or perhaps I am too optimistic.

Big Brother

“Nolrion,” she said, pacing the wood restlessly. Her mind still swirled with a two lifetimes of battling memories. “His name is Nolrion. It means, 'born in the shadow of stars'. That turned out to be more true than I'd ever wanted. Oh!”

Her words fell apart, and she trembled, then leaned against the tree. Raleem stood, hand outstretched—

and let it fall.

--

“Prince Alfern!”

Fern ducked behind an ostentatious hydrangea and tried not to breathe. His escape was two-thirds complete. If it wasn't for that whiny, fragile sister of his—

“Alfern! Come here at this exact moment!”

Natha was altogether too nosy for her own good, he thought, but she was bound to wander away soon. He heard her wood-bottomed shoes, the steps muffled in the dirt, walk closer to the bush he'd chosen to hide behind.

“Alfern!”

She was right over top of him now. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought she had found him, but then she walked away again. After he could hear her calling in another section of the garden, Fern leapt to his feet and raced away. The woods were so close, now. His bow and arrow were strung to his back, his pack was full of food, and a water canister sloshed at his side. Whoever said Wilderness classes were useless was obviously someone who had never planned to run away.

What boring people.

He dove and rolled into the underbrush and lay there for a few minutes, listening for any sound that would indicate he had been followed. When nothing was apparent, Fern got to his feet and brushed himself off, congratulating himself on his lucky escape.

He then found himself face to face with a figure clothed in black, and a sword was at his throat before he had time to make any friendly introductions.

“If you're going to run away, laddie, you've got to learn to listen better,” the man said. His voice was curiously thick and lilted, an accent that Fern couldn't quite recall. “I've been standing here the entire time.”

“Oi, put that away,” Fern said, face reddening in embarrassment. “I'm the Crown Prince. If you hurt me, my parents will have you hanged.”

“Hung,” the man corrected absently, putting his sword away. “I wasn't going to hurt you. You're the crown Prince? Of Ellymie?”

“Where else?” Fern said rudely.

The man examined him for a moment with a strange look on his weathered face.

“What's your name, laddo?”

“Alfern,” Fern said with some dignity.

“I trust that was your mother's idea?”

“It means 'Prince of Mountain Forests'.”

“Of course it does,” the man said with a funny smile. “Well, I'm sure you have somewhere interesting to get off to, so I'll leave you to that. Remember: use your ears.”

Fern didn't even deign to reply. He darted off into the woods before the man could blink.

Inspiration: Idle thoughts from 'Winter Rose' (McKillip) spun together with a string from an old story I haven't written in years, and this is what comes of it. I'm rather fond of Fern and Nol. You might see more snippets of them and theirs in the future.

Le Noir

Talli put her head in her hands. The room was dark. The light from one lamp shone in the black room. She knew without looking up exactly what the lamp looked like. It was old, perhaps Victorian, with grotesque gold trimmings and beads, perhaps diamonds, hanging from the shade. It was maroon, with little paintings on the side. The paintings she didn't know, because she always sat in this chair, and it was too far away to see them.

She hated that lamp. She would rather there be darkness, forever darkness. The lamp was morbid in its chilling brilliance. She didn't need the light. She didn't want it. She only waited for one half of one hour, and then she was escorted out again.

Seven times it happened, and three times it didn't. Ten times in all she had sat in that room and waited.

There would sometimes be a noise, like the door would open, but there was no one. The lamp shone on, a sentinel of dark tidings.

There was no clock in the room, only a lamp. An unwanted and useless lamp.

Squeak.

The door opened.

Eleven and eight.

Inspiration: Prompt: a morbid lamp

Dessert

Os walked into the restaurant unaccompanied, slipping her light jacket off her shoulders. The lady at the entrance started to ask how many were in her party, but Os pointed over to where her boyfriend was sitting and thanked the woman anyway. She made her way to the table and sat down across from him.

“Sorry it took me so long,” she apologized. “Traffic, ugh.”

“No problem,” Percy said.

Os thought he looked nervous, but it might have been a trick of the low lighting.

“So, how was work?” she asked, taking a sip of the water-with-lemon-no-ice that Percy had thoughtfully ordered for her.

“Long,” he said quickly. “I've been, uh, looking forward to this all day.”

He didn't look like he had been looking forward to it. He looked sick.

“Perce, are you okay? You look green,” Os said with some concern, reaching over to feel his forehead.

It was sweaty and cold – clammy. She put a hand on his cheek and eyed him with some concern. Maybe he had that stomach thing that was going around. He did look awfully pale.

“I'm fine, just, uh, just a little, uh, hot,” he stammered, fanning himself for effect.

“You're acting weird,” Os said suspiciously. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” Percy said, and he was saved further interrogation by the waiter's timely arrival.

They both ordered their usual, and Percy deflected all of Os's questions throughout the appetizer and entree. Over dessert and wine, however, he seemed to grow more nervous.

“Percy, what is the matter with you?” Os cried after Percy dropped a forkful of pie onto his lap.

“Nothing,” Percy said, rolling up the bite in a napkin and putting it on the table. “I just—Os, I need to tell you something.”

“What?” she asked slowly.

“You're the most amazing girl I've ever met,” he said fervently, “and I love you.”

“That's all?” Os said after a pause.

“You're supposed to reciprocate,” Percy said nervously.

“Well, yeah, you're awesome and I love you, too,” Os said, “but that doesn't explain the pie. Or the general nervousness.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Are you kidding?”

Her response was shot back so quickly, she hardly had time to comprehend the news.

“No,” he said, just as quickly. “I'm serious.”

He pulled a ring out of his pocket and held it out to her. The diamond glistened softly in the light.

“No, I won't marry you,” she said, quietly, and then she got up and left.

Her devil's food cake lay untouched on the table.

Inspiration: Prompt -- "proposal turned down"

Coffee

Candice stared at her black coffee. The steam swirled like smoke in the air, vanishing as soon as it appeared. She didn't like black coffee. She didn't know why she'd bought it.

Maurice stared at his cup of coffee with milk. He'd gotten it from McDonald's that morning – someone had given him a card for the place a few weeks ago, and it hadn't run out yet. He took a sip. He liked it.

Candice looked at the hobo just outside the door. His eyes were sky blue, and he was sipping coffee. The chill didn't bother him – he had a ragged coat that nonetheless looked like it kept him warm. She watched his eyes examine the coffee, then broaden to the cityscape around him. She wondered what the city looked like through brightly blue eyes.

Maurice looked at the taxis and buses as they passed him by, reading the ads idly. It was busy and humming in the city, as usual. After the coffee woke him up a bit, he'd bring out his violin and walk down to Fourth. He could usually get a few dollars there. He didn't mind being a hobo so much – he had more time for his music that way.

Candice watched the man get up and walk away, coffee in hand and violin case at his side. She wondered if he was mad at the government for the economy. She wondered if maybe playing the violin was what he'd wanted to do all along.

Maurice watched the traffic light, and crossed the street. Some people smiled, other didn't notice him. They were too intent on their own jobs and their own lives – on things they didn't care about.

Neither of them saw the plane, shadowed as they were by the two tall buildings. Both of them heard the crash, but only briefly. Then, all was blank.

Inspiration: Prompt -- "hobo"

Pigs and Mud

Alex looked over the fence at the pigs wallowing in the mud. College applications filled one hand, and scholarship applications filled the other. A pen was stuck through her ponytail. She wished she could have it as easy as the pigs, rolling happily in the muck. They didn't know any better than to roll in the mud, and they wouldn't probably care for clean water if they had it. Mud stuck better, made a longer impression. And as it got hotter, the mud was harder to get out of. In the summer, it held you down and never let you go.

If mud was her life in the country, and clean water her life in the city – at college – the analogy fit. Country life was trying to suck her in and never let her go off to college. Her farm girl ways stuck to her as thickly as the accent she'd tried in vain to lose. Like the mud, her accent would never leave her. She preferred to conduct college business over the internet or through mail, so she wouldn't have to hear the college administrators sneer at the mud plastered heavily on her pink, piggy skin.

She sat down on the log and started filling out applications, listening to the pigs and vowing to attain a higher station than they.

Six months later, in the city, she felt just as muddy as she had that day on the farm. She made it in to a good school with a 60% scholarship, and she took out loans to the pay the rest. She was excelling in her business and veterinarian classes, and she'd made lots of friends, but still she felt different. Her voice was stubbornly unchanged, for one, and she found that she missed the muck. She was embarrassed to admit that fact even to herself, and never mentioned it. Whenever she spoke of her home, she spoke of it with relief that she was gone.

It took more time for her to realize that a pig without some mud is just a stuffed pig. Mud adds character.

That was when she got her degree and set up a moving clinic to treat farm animals. Pigs were her favorite.

Inspiration: Prompt -- "pigs in the mud"

I Love You

“Almost there, Captain Ephraim,” Thess called down from the crow's nest.

She could see land approaching through the spyglass: green, verdant land settled with whitewashed buildings and thatch-roofed houses. She didn't call very loudly, because she knew he was right beneath her. He was always beneath the crow's nest at midday. It wasn't an odd observation. In fact, any of the crew could probably tell you that, if they'd thought about it, which they didn't. That was the difference with Thess. She thought about things. Thinking about things had kept her alive thus far, so she'd decided to make a habit of thinking.

“Alright, Thess,” the Captain said, just loud enough for her to hear.

She smiled at the praise in his tone and slid down from the crow's nest, almost giving herself rope burn.

“Everything in the hold is catalogued and ready for sale, sir,” Thess said, saluting the Captain crisply where he stood in the shade, his broad brimmed hat ready to cast a shadow in case the light shifted.

“As always,” he said simply, and retreated belowdecks.

Thess walked over to the railing and put the spyglass away in its leather bag tied to the wall. She then put her hands on the rail and leaned out over the aquamarine surf, looking down for fathoms before the bottom was lost in darkness. She loved the crystal blue waters of the southeastern sea, though they rarely traveled there, for the Ellespethians and their neighbors had so much trouble keeping their own citizens in line that they'd taken to confiscating ships and rooting out pirates. The Captain thought it best to not take chances. However, on their last raid, they'd taken something that he knew to be valued highly in Vell, so they'd risked the Ellespethian patrols and were about to land in the main port of Vell – Tyran.

Thess could remember when she first joined the ship, four years ago. It had been thinking alone that had saved her the same grisly death that her captors – slave traders – had faced.

“Why should I spare you, girl?” the tall man asked, mouth dripping with blood as he nudged her leg with the worn toe of his leather boot.

“I – I can help you,” she stuttered, not looking at him. “I can help you communicate with others in the port cities. I know what you are. You can't suffer the daylight. I can run the errands for you. My hair is already cut short. I'll—keep it short, and pass for a boy.”

“No begging for your life?”

“No, sir,” she said, eyes downcast. “I don't take you as the sort of man that would spare me for that.”

She had been right. The Captain was not compassionate. He was a businessman, and what she'd said made sense. On some nights, while she tossed and turned, alone in the locked room next to the Captain's, she imagined that it might have been something more – some deeper reason that caused him to accept her as a companion. She knew that was stupid, though, and tried to dismiss the thought.

That thought might be banished, but others often came up to replace it. Why did he stand under the mast at midday, the same time she always came above the decks from feeding the Givers? He always lingered long enough for a conversation before he drifted away. And often, at night, when she couldn't sleep, he would unlock her door and stand by the porthole to frighten all her bad thoughts away.

She didn't want to admit to him that she slept better knowing he was there.

Other nights, he would stand by the porthole and she would join him, standing closer than she ever dared to in the daylight, and they would have longer conversations. They would speak of life, of magic, of other creatures like him, of anything dark and beautiful, anything deep and mystical. Never did they speak of those conversations above decks, where he was silent and removed. He was cruel and cold, and she knew that every time she saw his face. In the dark, with just the silver light of the moon, his face was less sharp, less brutal.

Thess could count every time he'd made physical contact with her on one hand. He was always careful, more careful than the others, who often slid a hand down her arm to feel the lively pulse beneath their fingers, though they knew they would get a tongue lashing from the Captain for it.

The first time he touched her, she'd been knocked off the boat when a cannonball hit it, making her lose her balance. She saw the blue sky, the green water, and the brown boat as she flipped over, and instantly wondered if she would break her neck when she hit the water. Then, he had her arm in his cold, hard grip, and before she could register that she was no longer falling, he yanked her onto the deck and let go, rubbing his hand on his cloak and drawing his sword to fight the enemies, not giving her a backward glance.

The second time, the First Mate had tried to bite her. He'd gotten as far as pulling down her shirt collar to expose the hyperactive artery on her neck, and she'd all but given up hope on living much longer, unless he got full before he finished and she continued life as a vampire too. She thought that that might not be so bad, and was just reconciling herself to that possibility when the Captain barreled into the room and pulled the First Mate back so hard that he almost went through the wall. He put two fingers on her neck, and she wondered why, until he pulled them back and she saw them dripping with blood. Immediately, her hands flew to her neck to find the wound, but it was gone.

The third time, she actually touched him. He'd been wounded badly on a raid, and the other vampires' magic wouldn't heal him. She felt for a pulse, fumblingly, on his neck, and his eyes snapped open, dark and wicked.

“Don't touch me,” he snapped, knocking her hand away with his swathed arm. “I need blood, that's all. Young blood.”

“She'll do,” a vampire grunted, nudging Thess. “She's the youngest and freshest.”

Ephraim leveled his gaze at her disconcertingly and she swallowed.

“If those are your orders, Captain,” she said.

He stared into her eyes, and she almost felt like she was falling into the black depths before he spoke again.

“No, that will not be necessary. Take from the youngest, strongest Giver.”

The fourth time he had been wildly, madly excited. They'd captured three strong Givers and escaped the Ellespethian patrols, which were carrying four sorcerers and two fairies – someone had warned the patrol of their arrival – and were setting sail for Berensia. Thess had thought that they were done for several times, and so, it seemed, had Ephraim, who was beaming so widely that his frightening, cruel face was all but eradicated, replaced with a buoyant spirit. He grabbed her for a reel and swung her around the deck crazily, though she knew he could dance properly – she'd seen him dance with some of the other female vampires before. He didn't even seem to notice her flailing pulse racing under his fingertips.

Four times. Thess knew she was crazy for thinking like this. She felt it was a betrayal of her survival skills to use her most important tool in such a useless way. Thinking about Ephraim was one of the least productive things she could do.

But everything she did was for Ephraim. Everything. Truthfully, she knew she could have sneaked away at any port they'd landed at. He knew it too. She could see it in his eyes. But, neither of them mentioned anything. She stayed because she wanted to: because she hoped Ephraim wanted her to. Thinking that in such plain terms pulled her up short. Was she really only staying for Ephraim? She thought about it, carefully, as she always did.

Yes. Yes, she was.

Well, if she were staying only for Ephraim, she was going to make sure that he wanted her. If he didn't care about her one way or the other, she would leave next time they made port, and she could do more productive things. Maybe she could even become a sorceress. She knew she had the brain for it, and she knew a lot about magic. Watching the vampires and hearing things from Ephraim had built a picture in her head of the limits and capabilities, and she found it most intriguing.

Now that she had a back up plan, she was less worried about talking to Ephraim. She just had a very simple question to ask him. If yes, she would stay. If no, she would leave. If he lied, either way, she would leave. She would be able to tell if he was lying. She had a knack for doing that, like she had a knack for thinking of clever plans just when she needed them.

“Captain?” she asked, resting a finger on the port hole glass and observing the moonlight on the brass.

“Yes?” the Captain asked, and she could feel his eyes on her.

She couldn't bring herself to ask the question straight out. She wanted him to say it. So, she moseyed around the topic.

“I was thinking of leaving the ship in Tyran,” she said. “I think I'd like to be a sorceress.”

“And have you spreading our tale, spreading our weaknesses abroad, so we would be so easily caught?” the Captain said, his voice a menacing growl. “I would chain you up with the Givers myself before I let you free.”

“No, you wouldn't,” Thess said confidently. And, he wouldn't. She knew that. She didn't know why, but she knew he wouldn't do it. “We both know that.”

“Why do you want to leave?” he asked abruptly, and she could feel his eyes moving to gaze out the porthole.

“There are so many opportunities out there for someone like me – someone with a head on her shoulders and a shield over her soft spot.”

“Has our treatment been not to your liking?”

“You know I've always appreciated your hospitality.”

“Are you bored with your tasks?”

“They are a bit monotonous.”

“Such is life at sea,” he sighed. “You're either knee deep in adventure or bored stiff.”

“You'd have to have a good reason to stay,” she said.

“And I have.”

“But, have I?” she asked, looking up at him.

He didn't look at her.

“I suppose not,” he said, “as you seem so eager to leave.”

She wanted to scream that she was not eager; that, in fact, leaving this boat would be the hardest, most painful thing she had ever done, besides watching her family burn with the house. She wanted to shriek that she wanted to stay forever, if he wanted her to. Her brow furrowed in anger and her next words were clipped.

“Four years of service to you, when we both know I could have slipped away at any time. Four years of devotion to you, of fighting beside you in battle, of keeping everything in order, of dealing with the Givers when the time was hard for you and your crew, of making deals that only a human could make, of warning you of lies, of always executing your plans without the slightest deviation – four years, Ephraim. Have I earned nothing from you?”

“Thessalee,” he said roughly, but somehow the name still sounded beautiful on his lips. “You know I hold you in the highest respect. You've done more than I thought a human capable of. I thought you were happy here.”

He pressed his palm flat against the glass.

“I was happy,” she whispered.

“What happened?” Ephraim's tone changed in a heartbeat. “Is someone bothering you?”

“No,” she said. “I just realized that I – I can't think of a valid reason to stay.”

The anger on his brow lessened until it left his usual frown.

“Then, leave.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, saluting. “I'll leave in the morning.”

She should have known. Should have known. But still, she had to get it out, or it would always occupy her mind and distract her from more important things.

“Captain?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

She turned around and slipped back into her bed, the rough covers cool against her fevered skin.

“Is that not reason enough to stay?” Ephraim asked.

“No,” she said to the wall.

There was such a long pause that she began to drift off to sleep with the peaceful image of Ephraim at the porthole blazed into her brain.

“I love you, Thess.”

She rolled over and examined his face. It was pained and angry, practically smoldering, but it was truthful. She nodded once and rolled back over. She fell asleep with Ephraim at her porthole, scaring the bad thoughts away.

Inspiration: All kudos to Mazzie for this one. She implanted vampirates in my head, and I haven't been able to get them out!

Lulu?

Lucille looked at the little stick incredulously. She shook it, just to make sure.

“Luce? What's the verdict? Prego or Chi-Chi's?” Marianne sang teasingly through the door.

“Hold on,” Lu said, her voice shaky. “This first one is broken. I'm going to do it again. Go get some Wendy's, okay?”

“Okay...” Marianne said, sounding less sing-songy than before.

Lucille picked up her half-empty bottle of water and finished it off, then filled it up in the sink and downed three-quarters of that. Then, she sat back on the toilet and waited, sipping on the remaining water. The discarded pregnancy test glared a happy pink back at her from the garbage can. She covered it up with a wad of toilet paper.

In a few minutes, she had another positive pregnancy test in her hands. The pink plus sign quivered with her shaking hands.

“I got you a fish sandwich,” Marianne said from outside the door. “What's the result?”

There was silence from inside the bathroom. Lu was staring at the test, unbelieving.

“Luce? Lu?”

The doorknob jiggled, but it was locked. Lu dug her cell phone out of her pocket and called the first number that came to mind when she was upset.

“Hey, beautiful,” Chanie's rich voice said, caressing her ears and soothing her racing heart.

“Hi,” she squeaked, barely holding back tears.

“Lu! Let me in!” Marianne shouted, banging on the door.

“What's wrong?” he asked, instantly alert. “Is that Marianne?”

“I'm pregnant,” she choked.

Marianne swore on the other side of the door.

“Lu, let me in,” she said.

“Chanie?” Lu whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Lu! Unlock the door!”

“Chanie?” she repeated, barely audible. “Talk to me. Tell me it's going to be okay.”

She hear a muttered curse from his end. She burst into tears.

“No, no, baby, not you,” Chanie said, his words tripping over each other. “I just can't believe – it has to be that one time. It's the only time we didn't have a condom...”

“What am I going to do?” she asked, still crying.

“You have to get an abortion,” he said, like there was no other option.

“That's easy for you to say!” she yelled, her arms crossed over her stomach.

“Lu! You don't want a baby!”

“Well, no, but that doesn't mean I can kill him!”

“'It', not 'him',” Chanie said calmly, reasonably. “It's not even a month old. It's just a clump of nothing.”

“That's going to be a baby.” Lu went back to whispering.

“Going to be. Not now.”

“But you don't understand...”

“You don't understand. Right now you're hormonal. You can't think clearly.”

“Okay, if I promise to think about it reasonably, will you consider keeping h—it?”

She held her breath, listening for any sounds from him. She didn't know what had gotten into her – she didn't want a baby, didn't have time for a baby, but now that she was pregnant...

“Chanie?”

“Maybe. Call me when you get up tomorrow.”

His voice gave no ground, relaxed nothing, but Lu felt a twinge of hope anyway.

“Okay, I'll talk to you then,” she said.

“Alright. I ... love you, Lu,” he said.

“I love you too,” she replied, and hung up the phone.

Inspiration: Seraph's writing prompt for PH and I.

Helpmeet

He knew he had to leave now, leave her and the children behind while he went off again, like he used to. And though he was older now, stiffer, more tired – he had to go. No one else would believe Roderic, and the King wouldn't trust anyone else to come with him. But even the best of reasoning couldn't have made the parting any easier. Mara-Leigh was playing ring-around-the-rosie with Felise, and Celeste was tidying up after breakfast after putting little Connor down for his morning nap.

He stayed in the doorway, unnoticed for the time being. His pack was slung over his back, full of what he needed but nothing else. His heavy boots would keep his feet warm, his thick coat would block even the mountain's chill, and he had traveling food to keep up his strength. He remembered leaving like this before, and every time he felt like a stranger in his own home.

Celeste turned around and saw him.

“Are you ready?” she said quietly, walking over to him.

He nodded wordlessly, not willing to speak. The two girls fell in behind their mother, suddenly shy of this heavily burdened foreigner in their living room.

“Give your daddy a hug,” Celeste nudged.

Jody knelt down and opened his arms, and the two of them rushed in, crying, wrapping their arms around his neck.

“When will you come back?” Mara-Leigh asked through her tears.

“I don't know,” he whispered, squeezing both of them and kissing the tops of their soft heads.

They stayed together, the three of them, for a long moment. Jody tried desperately to remember everything about them, knowing that even if he was gone for a short while they'd be irrevocably changed.

“Okay, Daddy's got to go,” he finally said, prizing their arms from him.

They hung on tighter, still crying.

“Girls,” he said firmly, “let go.”

They slowly loosened their grips and allowed him to stand, watching him with weepy red eyes. He looked at Celeste, and she looked at him, both of them talking without saying anything. And then, because he couldn't take it anymore, he took her face in both hands and kissed her.

There was a desperate longing that still rose up in his heart, though he was long past the fanciful stage of their romance. He wished that as he kissed her, she would melt into him, never to be left behind. The two becoming one flesh, one bone, one person. He needed her to complete him, and it felt sickeningly like leaving an arm or leg at home when he had to leave her for so long. He relied on her steadfastness, her willingness to stand beside him even when he wasn't sure he was right. He depended on her wisdom and insight when his temper got in the way of reason. He depended on her to be honest with him about his flaws. She was his helpmeet.

And he couldn't promise he'd be coming back.

The nonsensical voice in his head told him that he couldn't die; he had a wife and children. It just couldn't happen. But then the memories of war came to his mind, and he saw Lee, the arrow in his chest, the blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, and his terrible, dead eyes, still with a look of surprise on his face. Anyone could die, at any time.

With the sick thought that this might be the last time he would kiss Celeste, he kissed her again, then trailed forceful kisses across her cheek and down the side of her neck, coming to a stop in the hollow of her collarbone. He breathed in the sweet, sweaty, country smell that was unmistakably her; he wanted to smell that every night for the rest of his long life. Her heartbeat was rapid, and he could feel her breath ruffling his hair.

The girls couldn't take it anymore and flung themselves at him, hugging his legs and bursting into fresh tears. Celeste kissed his cheek and then carefully unbuttoned a single button on his shirt. She slipped her hand underneath, onto his heart.

“Please bring this back to me,” she whispered in his ear. Neither of them had moved. His head rested still on her shoulder, and her cheek against his hair. Her hand was warm on his chest. She could feel his heartbeat slow and steady under her fingers.

He stood up straight again and clasped her hand, his eye never leaving her face.

“I will,” he promised.

He gave everyone a last hug, then left the cottage before his resolve failed him.

Inspiration: I actually don't know. The characters are from one of my other stories, however, and this is a possible scene in the sequel.