Hi!

Sometimes I write poetry or draw stuff.

[writing-prompt-s]

You are the ruler of a kingdom. Your daughter is turning 16 very soon. Most princesses coming of this momentous age usually want something elegant and just as extravagant, like a pony or her own carriage or something. Your little princess wants a dragon for her birthday.

[elidyce]

“I want a dragon.” Irene folds her arms, scowling. 

Princess Irena Vasilisa Caroline - Irene - is my only child. When she turns sixteen, in just over a month’s time, she will be confirmed as my heir. It is traditional that the parents of a newly confirmed heir give a gift at the conclusion of the ceremony. This gift is considered an omen of the heir’s rule to come, and is planned and considered for years in advance.  

“Darling, the ship is almost finished. It’s a lovely ship.” 

Iren’s scowl deepens. “I don’t want a ship, Mother. I don’t want the omen of my rule to be a stupid ship.” 

“But it signifies trade, and - “ 

“I know what it signifies. Everyone knows what it signifies. But I don’t want it to!” Irene stamps her foot. “Mother, this is my omen! My rule! I should get some say in this!” 

I open my mouth to repeat the platitudes, and then I stop. All my life, I have been trained to say what is appropriate. What is suitable. What is expected. 

Irene hasn’t. Oh, she was at first, when my parents were alive. But since I became queen, I have been more… lenient. I learned music, and dancing, and history, and poetry. Irene loves music, and sings like a lark, but she also uses a bow and a sword with skill, rides like a centaur and is an astute student of politics as well as history. 

I wanted to protest, when my parents told me what my omen would be - a fabulously rare and precious tree from some faraway land, whose yellow apples were sweet and plentiful. The tree still grows in the palace garden, and I’ve always liked the apples, but… 

I never protested. Fruitful and peaceful. It was a good omen for a regnant queen, they said. 

And now my daughter stands before me and demands a dragon. 

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[deepwaterfiction]

Text: The Nightmare People are kind. They offer you a place to rest, a meal before you go. They know what their world has in store for you.  

[elidyce]

I am exhausted when I stumble into the little town, footsore and dizzy with fatigue. I am beyond thinking that anywhere here is safe, but perhaps here I can find somewhere to sleep. 

I thought this place was a dream, once. But in dreams, there is never tiredness like this. 

It is an old man who sees me first. He hurries over, all concern. “You poor soul! How you’ve suffered. Come, come have some fresh water from the pump.” He guides me over to it, working the pump for me so I can drink and rinse some of the dust off my face and arms. 

WARNING - BODY HORROR AHEAD

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[deepwaterfiction]

Text: I walked for so long, the mountains learned my footsteps. They made new paths for me, up into uncharted territory. 

[elidyce]

I walked for so long, the mountains learned my footsteps. They made new paths for me, up into uncharted territory. 

I no longer return to the village.

I no longer need to. 

Sometimes they come to me, in my hut below the snowline, to seek my help. To find a lost animal, or a lost person, usually. Sometimes seeking the rare herbs that grow only on the mountainsides. 

I always find what is lost. The mountains know me now, respond to my footsteps on their sides, and they guide me to what does not belong to them. In winter, what I find is often only the body of the lost, but I find it. 

In return for my service, there is always a gift, sometimes more than one. Useful things - a cooking pot, a tanned hide, a new knife. Even when the family of the lost one rail at me for not finding them alive, someone always leaves something. I think they fear that if they do not, then next time, I’ll refuse.

Perhaps I will.

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[writing-prompt-s]

You work as the minor villain every new hero has to beat for their first battle.

[elidyce]

She had always been something of a figure of fun. Obscurata, with her melodramatic latin name and power to make darkness, who robbed banks and liquor stores and could be foiled by a teenager in a home-made costume. 

Tank had encountered her years ago, when he was a teenager in a homemade costume, and foiled her on his second attempt. It was almost a rite of passage - if you could take on Obscurata, you were ready for the life. Anyone who couldn’t take her down in five or six attempts tended to quit. 

It had been a surprise to see that rippling dark cape here, and a disappointment. He had... not a fondness, exactly, but a soft spot for Obscurata. She wasn’t one of the really bad ones. Older heroes steered the young ones towards her, knowing that they’d come out of a fight with her bruised but whole. She never killed. She never even seriously harmed. He hated to see her working with the Claw, who did. 

He tried not to let it distract him. Claw had taken a girl - Lily, one of a trio of new-minted girl heroes - in Tank’s city. He’d been keeping an eye on the girls, and he’d dropped everything to go in pursuit when he realized it was Claw who had Lily. Obscurata might have bruised and frightened her a little, but Claw’s captives usually wound up dead... or worse. 

He was strong, that was his thing, so he’d been able to come into Claw’s fortress by breaking through a wall. He skulked as quietly as he could through the corridors, which was not his thing but he’d had to learn to do it. He just had to find Lily and break out. He’d fight Claw if he had to, but honestly, a quick escape would be better. He’d left Rose and Ivy Green behind - flower names were unusual but clever - but dealing with one complete newbie was going to be bad enough and he’d rather not have her present for a major battle. They did stupid shit, when they were that young. 

When he heard the screaming, he abandoned stealth and ran. He didn’t have super speed, not like some, but being very strong and almost invulnerable meant you could go a lot faster than a regular person. The screams were horrible, gargling and choking, and he wasn’t going to let that kid die, not on his watch, not... 

But it wasn’t Lily screaming.

He saw her first, pressed into a corner, her eyes huge and her hands clamped over her mouth. She was a little bruised and bloodied, but not really hurt as far as he could tell. She seemed to glow, for a moment, until he realized that it wasn’t that she was glowing, it was just that the room was full of shadows... moving, unnatural shadows that filled the room like inky fog except for that one small corner and one small teenage girl. And from the other side of the room, where the darkness was deepest, came the terrible screams. And other, softer noises. Wet, horrible noises that made his gorge rise. That sounded like... 

He had to get to her. Bracing himself, he lunged into the thin screen of shadows between the door and that corner, only to find that they melted away when he approached, avoiding him the same way they avoided the girl. Obscurata commanded shadows, but he’d never seen her do anything like this.

Lily was whimpering very quietly behind her hand, and it seemed to take her a moment to recognize him, but then she dived at him, burrowing into his side when he put his arm protectively around her. Poor kid, she looked scared to death. Newbies weren’t supposed to meet something like Claw... or hear whatever this was.

The screams stopped with an abrupt crunch. The rippling, roiling shadows retreated, like those films of smoke in reverse, until they were sucked back into the rippling darkness of Obscurata’s cloak.

Obscurata had not been working with Claw. Not judging by the mangled, dismembered remains lying in a puddle of blood and still showing the remains of his black and silver costume. Obscuratus turned slowly to face them, the smooth mask as impassive as always. Tank had always wondered what was under it. Now, looking at the chewed pieces of Claw, he desperately did not want to find out. 

For some reason it startled him when her voice sounded as smooth and pleasant as it always had. “Is the child hurt?” 

He looked down at Lily. “You okay, kid?” 

She nodded jerkily. “Just regular fight stuff. He...” Her lip trembled. “He said he was going to... to hurt me. And then it went dark and...” She hid her face against Tank’s side. 

“They all know,” Obscurata said, still soft and calm as ever. “They all know they may not touch the new ones until I permit them. Now and then, one defies me.” The pointed toe of a boot prodded a leg which had rolled a little away from the body. “Then, I remind them why they obey me.” 

Tank felt almost as shaken as the girl trembling under his arm. Obscurata was... she was a baby-fight, not powerful or evil enough to do the kids any real harm. They’d all believed that. But Claw had been strong, one of the really scary bad guys, and Obscurata had destroyed and eaten him in a couple of minutes.

He had to swallow a couple of times before he was sure he could speak without his voice shaking. “I guess you’re tougher than we all thought,” he said slowly. 

She chuckled, a pleasant little chuckle made horrible by the blank mask hiding her face and the broken body at her feet. “Oh, yes,” she said softly. “I am very strong, and very old, and very much not to be crossed, though I would be grateful if you kept that to yourself. Those who need to know it, know. Those who don’t...” She gestured to Lily. “They need not fear me.” 

Tank shook his head. “You’re... you have to know what people think of you. That you’re one of the lowest level supervillains out there. Teenagers beat you all the time...” He trailed off. “Or... they think they do. When I hit you with that beam when I was sixteen...” 

“I actually felt it,” she said, sounding amused. “Not much, it’s true, but I felt it. Most don’t even manage that much.” 

“But you let them think they do. Why?” 

She shrugged. “It is.... a hobby, perhaps. A little amusement, in my retirement, to steal a little and let the young ones try their teeth on me.” 

“Retirement?” Tank blinked. She looked how she’d always looked - tall and thin, body largely obscured by shadows, only her mask showing above and an occasional hand or foot emerging then disappearing again. But Gecko, who’d been going grey when he was a teenager, had said he’d fought Obscurata as a kid. Fought her as a baby-fight, a beginner’s obstacle. “How old are you?”

The mask cocked. “Old,” she said softly. “Very old. When I was young, heroes came for me with swords and the new pistols, with their powder smoke and solid balls of metal. Oh, I was fearsome then. I ruled by terror, and my hoard was as great as any dragon’s.” She lifted a long finger - was it in a black glove, or was she far less human than they’d all assumed? - and tapped the mask’s chin. “It probably still is. I really should check on it.” 

“Then why.... why your hobby? I don’t understand.” Tank wasn’t sure either of them was getting out of here alive, and yet even now it was difficult to be afraid of Obscurata, who didn’t hurt the youngsters even when they hit her with beams.

“Because when I was young, they were men. And a few women, though not many.” Obscurata’s head lowered a little, and she looked down at her hand. “But as I grew older, they grew younger. They began wearing masks and fantastical costumes, so I couldn’t see their faces. And one day, I found that I had killed a child. A boy of fourteen or fifteen, with a child’s face and a child’s courage.” She sighed. “I was the terror of princes, the nightmare of generals.... but I had never hurt a child. We all have our lines that we do not cross, Tank, and that was mine. But I crossed it all unknowing, and I did not realize it until too late.” 

Tank looked at the mangled body. “Did you - “

“Yes.” The beautiful voice was sorrowful. “And I could not undo it. So I retired, for a time, but I realized that the young ones would still come. So I made a new name for myself and emerged again, seeking out the young and testing them, allowing them to beat me when they were proficient enough, and I made sure that the others like me did not touch them until I had judged them ready to fight.” 

“Who made you the judge?” It was Lily, and somehow she’d managed to go from terrified to annoyed in the sudden way teenagers did. “Why do you get to decide when we’re old enough to be real heroes?”

Obscurata pushed the dissevered leg towards her with one foot, and Lily squeaked in alarm. “Would you rather men like Claw chose for you?” she asked, a little stern now. “You and your sisters would be dead now, if not for me, flowers plucked untimely by men with unseemly appetites. You, and all the other young ones who are so brave and so unprepared. Be glad I shield you, and that I came for you when I heard you were taken, ungrateful child.”

Lily cowered. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Thank you.”

“Better.” Obscurata nodded to Tank. “Take her back, and teach them to do more than pose and monologue.”

“I will.” Tank rubbed his head, remembering how Obscurata had broken him of monologuing by smacking him with a chair. “And thank you. Really. It’s... good to know someone’s looking out for the kids.” 

“Indeed.” And then she was gone, fading into the shadows the way she always had. For much longer than he’d known, apparently. 

It was a simultaneously reassuring and frightening thought. 

[deepwaterfiction]

Text: "I’m a farmer,“ she insisted, a skeletal raven perched on her shoulder, “nothing more nothing less." 

[elidyce]

They say that if you walk through the North Woods at twilight, all the way to the crossroads, a fifth road will appear. 

They say the signpost grows a new arm, pointing to that road, but what is written on it is unreadable.

They say that now and then someone foolish, or desperate, goes down that road. Many do not return. Those who do, come back changed. 

I walked through the woods at twilight every night for a week. On the eighth day, when I reached the crossroads, a narrow path was there, leading off at an angle from the crossed dirt roads and winding through the trees. When I looked up at the signpost, a fifth arm had appeared, and the writing on it was not in any language I know. Beside the letters, however, I saw a stalk of wheat and a bird. 

That was enough. I hefted the pack on my back, and set off down the path. 

The path was narrow, but it was smooth enough to walk even as the light faded. When full darkness came, I lit my lantern, and continued walking. I walked until the moon was up, and then at last the trees thinned, and I stepped into a clearing. 

There was a farm holding there, fields and buildings silvered by moonlight, and one open door with light streaming out of it, warm and welcoming. There seemed nothing else to do, so I walked over to it and knocked on the open door. 

“Come in, wanderer, if you mean no harm.” The voice is serene, but there is a strange echoing quality to it. 

I enter, slow and cautious. The inside of the house is all one room, in the old style, with stores hanging from thick beams, a big fireplace on one wall and a low box bed in one corner. A woman is sitting in a chair by the fire, knitting by the light of two candles stuck to the back of the chair. “Come in,” she says again, turning her head to look at me, her voice still echoing as if it comes from a deep well or an ancient tomb. “Come in, and get warm.” 

There is nothing I could describe, about her appearance, to frighten anyone. She looked like any farmwife, solid and capable, hair coiled around her head in grey-streaked braids, her drab skirts tucked around her legs. And yet, when she looked at me, I quailed, and almost fled. There was something about her that was terrifying, a feeling of… not malice, but of power, held in reserve. If I had meant harm, I think that look would have struck me dead. As it was, it waited, to see what I would do.

“I followed the path,” I blurted, trembling. “I saw it, in the twilight, and I… I came.” 

“I see,” she said, still waiting patiently. “And why did you come, child?” 

“Because… because…” The words rise up and choke me. There are so many reasons, so much boiling inside me… “Because I am cursed,” I say at last, my eyes filling with tears. “Because I bring ill-luck wherever I go. I thought… I thought whatever was down the path couldn’t be worse than what I left behind. Even if I died, it couldn’t be worse.” I remember the graves I’ve left behind me, of those I loved, of the hard words and threats, of children dragged away for fear of my curse touching them. 

She rises, then, and comes to me, laying her hand lightly on my head. It is warm, and soft, like any hand, yet it is much, much heavier than any hand should be. She cocks her head, eyes distant, and then she smiles sadly. “It’s not a curse, child,” she says gently. “Just ill luck, and superstition, and cowards putting blame where it does not belong. Come and sit by the fire, and eat something.” 

She gives me stew and a chunk of bread, and a cup of strong beer. When I am finished, she spreads a pallet before the fire and covers me in blankets of thick wool. I sleep well, for the first time in longer than I can remember. 

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[otherwindow]

A desperate cleric slamming every healing spell so hard to bring someone back to life the ground is forced to grow plants and flowers around the body.

[otherwindow]

Decades later, guarded by a forest of roses and thorns, lies a corpse refusing to rot.

[elidyce]

This story was written especially for @peggydreadful, who always leaves such encouraging and insightful comments on my stories, and always makes my day when I see them.

Maia cast every spell of healing she knew, her voice breaking into sobs and wails, over the body of the Chosen One. She clutched at his big, awkward hands, the bony wrists sticking out of sleeves too short for him. She stroked the shaggy brown hair of the orphaned farm-boy who’d followed a prophecy away from the only home he’d ever known, praying and begging her goddess to recall a life already slipped away. She cast her spells over and over again, until her voice was hoarse and her body trembled with fatigue, until the power she drew down had raised flowers from the blood-soaked earth around him and ferns from the dry ground and vines down from the trees to make a curtain around his body. 

They dragged her away, at last, the pursuit too close to linger any longer. There was no time even to bury him, her Festus, the motherless child and childless woman finding family in each other. All she could do was cover him with his cloak, and scatter a handful of the red blooms over him, and leave him looking as if he slept among the ferns and flowers.

The Dread One could not be defeated, not completely, without the prophecy and the sword. But they fought fiercely, the family that had lost its child, the swordsman and the archer, the thief and the hunter, the wizard and the cleric who fought with all the grief and fury of a mother bereft. He could not be destroyed, the Dread One, but he was wounded and driven away, at least for a time, and the wizard went back to his tower, and the cleric to her abbey, for the faces of the others reminded her too much of what she had lost.

She went back, and sought the peace she’d once had, but every night she dreamed of her boy, of every moment she’d had with him, and often, too often, of his death in her arms, while he clutched at her sleeves and looked up at her with pleading eyes. For ten years she endured, praying that the pain would ease with time as everyone told her it would, seeking the comfort in her goddess that had always been there before. And she knew, she knew the Veiled Lady grieved with her, would have saved him if she could, for wasn’t she, too, a mother? But she could not recall the dead, had not that power, and all she could do was love her cleric, and mourn with her.

At last, Maia went to her Abbess. “I must leave the temple,” she said, her throat tight, for the temple had been her home for more than forty years and she would miss it sorely. “I can no longer stay here.”

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[writing-prompt-s]

A pirate captain is captured and taken prisoner by an enemy ship. Just when things take a turn for the worst, that’s when it shows up.

[elidyce]

Vestra knelt on planks holystoned white and smooth, her arms shackled behind her with iron, and watched her blood drip onto the clean decking from her split lip. Someone would scrub that up as soon as she was moved, most likely. The navy kept its ships clean.

The captain of the navy ship was delivering some kind of speech. Vestra wasn’t listening. The speeches were all the same, and boiled down to ‘I have boldly captured this scurvy pirate and her knavish crew, huzzah for me, as soon as we have mopped up the blood we will take the rogues home and hang them forthwith’. She’d heard it before.

This time might be the last time, though. This time they’d captured her ship, too. When she turned her head, she could see the Ragged Maid, her flags lowered, with navy sailors in neat jackets swarming over her. Vestra hated to see it, and she whispered a near-silent apology to her ship. Captains came and went, but a good ship went on. Now... the Navy would either claim her, make her one of their own, ripping off her figurehead and her colours and violating her very nature, or they’d sink her. Plenty of pirate ships wound up sunk, their holds filled with stones so they couldn’t be brought back up. 

She was pulled back to awareness of the navy men by a heavy splash. Then another, and another. Her head jerked up, and she saw two of the sailors pushing another dead pirate over the rail. “No!” she cried, cutting off the captain’s pontificating. “You don’t put the dead over, not here!” There were men already beginning to mop up the blood, but that didn’t matter. Blood was all right. But putting a fresh body into the sea, here…

The captain looked down his nose at her, all stiff military correctness and pomade. “How dare you try to give us orders, pirate?”

He was new. He must be. Close up, she could see that he was young, his bars still shiny with newness. Damn him, and damn his superiors, who hadn’t warned him. “You don’t put the dead into the water! Not here! It’ll sink both ships if you anger it enough!” 

The captain looked outraged. One of his men, though, a lieutenant with a deep enough tan that he’d probably been in these waters for a while, moved up to him. “Sir, I believe I mentioned earlier that - “

“Oh, yes, the superstition about the sea-monster.” The captain snorted. “Well, the Royal Navy does not take account of superstitions, lieutenant. I will not have rotting corpses on board my ship.”

“Then put them on mine!” Vestra was on her feet, not easy with hands shackled behind her. “You can’t put fresh dead in the water, not here! One, maybe, if he died natural, but - “ 

“Childish superstition - “

“No, it isn’t! I’ve seen it! Seen it with my own eyes!” Vestra took a step forward, ignoring the swords pointing at her. “It will come, it always does!” 

The lieutenant looked frightened, and for good reason. “Sir, please, it is not only superstition, I promise you that. In these waters, this close to the islands, it is suicide to - “ 

“I will have no more of this!” The captain cuffed Vestra to the deck, which she’d expected, but she was surprised when the lieutenant landed beside her. “Men, toss the bodies overboard, now! And the next man to mention this superstitious garbage to me will be flogged!” 

“But sir - “ The lieutenant pushed himself up on his arms, blood running down his cheek from a split brow. The captain had already turned away from him, walking over to the rail to shout orders at the other ship. 

Vestra kicked him. “Stay down!” she hissed “They’ve already put at least six bodies over. It’s coming.” 

“I have to warn the men - “ 

“It’s too late!” Vestra got up on her knees and wobbled over to her surviving crew. They were cowering together now, glancing around. She looked back over her shoulder at the navy man. He’d tried, at least, and he cared about the men. “Get over here. You’re bleeding, and you’re down. That might be enough.” 

The lieutenant hesitated. Then he got to his feet and scrambled away. Well, she’d tried to help him. Vestra and the rest of the pirates huddled around the mainmast, cowering. 

“Captain, I feel the breeze.” It was Baker who whispered it, his voice shaking. Baker was a hard man, hard as nails, but they all feared it. 

Vestra turned her head. She could feel the breeze, too. The cool breeze was always the first sign. The wind was never cool, here, never... except when it was coming.

“Captain,” she called, knowing the man wouldn’t listen but having to try. “Listen to me. It is coming. You won’t survive, but your men might, if you just - “ 

He stalked over to her, and this time he struck her with a closed fist, knocking her dizzy. “One more word, wench, and I’ll hang you now instead of waiting until you are tried for your crimes!” he snarled. “You and your crew!”

Vestra dropped her head, more blood dripping onto that white deck. Satisfied by her obedience – or just full of himself – he turned and stalked away. Well, it was his choice. It was a shame about the men, but Vestra didn’t have much compassion in her heart for Navy men anyway.

She heard running feet, and the lieutenant slid to his knees beside them. “What do you – “ Barker started, and then a little middie was shoved into the cluster beside him, a child of no more than thirteen. Barker growled and shoved the boy away. “Hell, no, I won’t – “

Vestra hooked the frightened child with her foot and pushed him in next to Ada, who moved to shield the boy with her body and nodded to her captain.  “They’re children, Barker,” she snapped. “We should at least try to protect them.”

There were five boys, between twelve and fifteen. The pirates clustered around them, some grumbling, some willing. “Get down here with them,” Vestra told the lieutenant. “You tried to stop him. You wanted to save the boys. I’ll try to cover you too.”

The lieutenant wavered, but only for a moment. “Damn him,” he muttered, and stripped off his blue coat and tossed it away, gesturing to the boys to do the same. He dropped to his knees beside the pirates in his shirt-sleeves, starting to shiver. The wind was cold, now, and the sky was growing dark, though it had been bright and clear moments before. The clouds were coming in from every side, grey as smoke and moving even faster.

The Navy men had noticed too. She heard cries of alarm, and running feet, but she was looking at the sky. Almost black, now, and the wind was still rising.  

Then it came. They heard the high, wailing cry, first, and several pirates covered their eyes, or those of the boys. Then it swooped down. Vestra had heard that it sometimes came as a bird, or a great beast, but this time was the same as the only other time she had seen it… a huge, human-like shape shrouded in rags and tatters, the whole translucent and lit by blue storm-fire. It came shrieking over the water, long arms outstretched, and thunder crashed and lightning split the sky above them and men screamed as it seized the captain and tore him in half between its transparent hands.

After that, even Vestra hid her eyes.

When the horrible sounds had stopped, and she felt the touch of the sun on her skin again, Vestra looked around. The ships themselves were undamaged, which was a mercy she hadn’t expected, Almost all the navy men were gone, though she thought some of the wounded would likely have been spared. It generally didn’t take anyone it perceived as a victim. All the surviving pirates still seemed to be present – cowering in shackles, as well as their visible wounds, had been enough. The lieutenant and the boys, too, seemed unhurt, though they all still had their eyes tightly shut, three boys were crying, and one and all were shaking like leaves.

“It’s over,” she told them, kindly enough. “Come on, man, on your feet… we’re all tied or shackled. You can’t sail this ship alone, so you’ll need to let us loose.”

The lieutenant got to his feet shakily. “What… is that?”

“No-one knows.” Vestra nodded approvingly as he started cutting loose the few pirates who had been tied with ropes, when the Navy captain ran out of shackles. “It’s tied to the Ban Islands, and the waters to about ten leagues out.. Anyone dropping a body in the sea anywhere in these waters… well, it sometimes doesn’t come for just one. More than that…”

The lieutenant nodded. “I’ve never been to those islands. There’s… I mean, we’re told that there was plague there.”

Vestra shrugged, turning to let Ada get to work on her shackles with a pick she’d had hidden in her knotted braids.  “There could have been. I’ve been there. There were people living there once… there were old huts and boats, that kind of thing.”

One of the boys wiped his nose on his sleeve, sniffling. “Do you think… it… killed them?”

Vestra shook her head. “No. It never attacks the wounded or the helpless.” She made a sour face, and when Ada pulled her shackles off, she lifted her hands over her head and stretched. “I think it was a raid… pirates, or Navy men. Burned huts, dead natives… it happens sometimes, in these islands. But whoever did it… I don’t think they got away. And whenever the body of a murdered man or woman enters the water, it comes, even now.”

The youngest boy looked at her. “How can you be a pirate here, then?”

Vestra shrugged. “We don’t raid much in these waters. This is where we live. Where we rest up. Most Navy ships are smart enough not to enter these waters, whether they believe in it or not.”

The lieutenant spat on that nice white deck. “He was new to this part of the world… and a bloody fool.” He looked at the boys, and at the bloodied ship. “I don’t suppose you could take on a few more crew, captain?” he asked, without much hope.

“Well, I’m short near half my crew, thanks to your captain.” Vestra shrugged again, rubbing her shoulder. “And if I leave you here to die, it might come for me too. What do you say, lads? Will it be a pirate’s life for you, or off my ship at the next port and take your chances?”

The boys looked at each other nervously. “Can we think about it?” the oldest asked. “We’n’t know what kind of captain you are, yet.”

Vestra laughed. “Well, that’s fair. Pirates are never pressed, lads… if you take ship with me, it’s a free choice. But you can all sail with me until the next port, for I’ll need the hands. And all of us together might even get this ship to port, as well as the other, if we have fair weather. She’s a good ship.”

“That she is.” The lieutenant untied his neck-cloth, and offered it to a bleeding pirate trying to stanch his wound. “Well, I’ll no doubt be court-martialled or worse if the navy ever finds me again, though the boys might be spared for their youth.  It’s a pirate’s life for me, Captain… I don’t know what kind of captain you are either, but you can’t be worse than that idiot.”

“Weak praise, but I’ll take it.” Vestra nodded. “All right then. Ada, take a few of ours down below and check for survivors. Barker, get one of their boats down. We’re going over to the Ragged Maid before she drifts away, for if there’s a man left on her I’ll be surprised. Fox, you take those boys and get something hot into them, before their nerves give out entirely.”

They got both ships to harbour, in the end. The lieutenant, who decided to go only by the name Emmet, never went back. Two of the boys they dropped in ports frequented by Navy ships, to go home to their families. The other three decided they liked the life, and stayed. The Navy never knew what happened to its fine ship, or their crew… the boys claimed to have been accidentally left ashore, in the captain’s hurry to pursue the famous pirate ship Ragged Maid.

And all around the Ban Islands, if a man died, he was kept aboard until the ships got more than ten leagues away.

[writing-prompt-s]

You’re a superhero, and you have been having many battles with this one slippery villain who always eludes your grasp. One day, while you were out, you receive an alert that someone broke into your house. Upon returning, your weapon already in your hand, you are stunned to find said villain holding your pet cat, curled up in a ball on your carpet, and crying.

[dycefic]

This one is dedicated to Elliot Page, even though he’ll never see it. Congrats, dude.

Tank was getting real tired of Nemea. Real tired. 

There were worse villains - Claw sprang to mind, usually after bad dreams of shadows and screams. Obscurata, the star of those bad dreams, was probably worse in her own way, even if she’d decided to make a hobby of gently guiding baby heroes. But Nemea was just plain driving him nuts. 

Nemea had started out as a hench for Flashcard over in Nueva Roma, where she was Guarde’s problem. But she’d broken from Flashcard over one of his nastier mind games, and moved cities and become Tank’s problem. She was mid-level… robbing banks and occasionally taking hostages, but not the bomb-the-city-or-otherwise-slaughter-thousands type. 

The trouble was, Nemea was very fast, and Tank wasn’t. Oh, he was faster than any normal human, super strength took care of that, but Nemea was super-fast. Very occasionally he’d corner her long enough to get a couple of hits in, but never for long. And being mostly invulnerable, Nemea’s claws didn’t do more than annoy him. He wasn’t sure if she found it as frustrating as he did, but there really wasn’t much either of them could do to the other one, when you got right down to it, not unless they wanted to start tearing off limbs or gouging out eyeballs, which was a level of mayhem Tank didn’t care for and Nemea tended to avoid. So whenever they encountered each other it was mostly a lot of yelling, and Tank trying to get the stolen goods back or the hostages out. 

This morning there’d been another round of time-wasting. Nemea had robbed a jewellery store, Tank had showed up, there’d been yelling, there’d been a lot of pointless flailing that didn’t catch her or cut him, and then… 

He didn’t know why he’d done it. Maybe it’d been the unusually worked up sound to Nemea’s voice, or the higher-than-normal levels of property damage, but he’d stopped trying to grab her for a moment and asked a genuine question. “Dude. Are you… you know… okay?” 

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[writing-prompt-s]

You entered a forest filled with monsters. The exit constantly moves, you don’t age in the forest. When exiting, one person must stay unless they are the only one in the forest. Many a time you found the exit but let others leave. For the first time, someone asks how long you’ve been here.

[dycefic]

I don’t know how many entrances there are to the forest. I know there is at least three – I entered in the mountains, and I know there are doorways near the sea and in the lowlands. But all the doors lead out to the same place. A little clearing, near the edge of the Forest, that you enter by passing between two trees. Once you are in that clearing, there is only one way to escape – you must find the Stone Door.

The Stone Door moves. Frequently

When there is no-one else within the forest, I stay near the clearing. It keeps the bigger predators away and makes it easier to find newcomers.

This group came through in the early morning. They were on foot, stumbling and gasping, fleeing from something. A tall man, in leather armour, carrying a mace. Two women, one in leather armour with a bow on her back, one in the faded tunic and trews of a peasant, who seemed unarmed. A boy, also a peasant, not more than thirteen, holding a sling like he knew how to use it. They did not even realize they’d entered the Forest, but kept stumbling on. They didn’t stop until I stepped out from between the trees. “Whatever you were fleeing from, it cannot pursue you here,” I told them.

They stopped then, and those who had weapons clutched at them. “Who… what… are you?” It was the woman with the bow who asked. “And we are being hunted, we cannot – “

I leaned on my staff – the staff topped by a skull with four spiked horns and the fangs of a predator. This tends to go faster if I show them, immediately, proof of where they are. “You are not hunted now – at least, not by anything human. You are in the Forest of Monsters, and there is only one way out.”

The man and the woman with the bow looked puzzled. The peasant woman and boy looked terrified. “The Forest of Monsters?” the woman gasped. “Oh no… oh no…” She leaped at me, clutching at my arm. “Are you the Guide? The stories say there is a Guide, someone who helps! Please, help us!” She was either very brave or very frightened – my appearance has caused several others to flee. My clothing is made from monster skins, my skin dyed blue with tattoos and stained green with leaf juices. I look half monster myself, these days.

“What is the Forest of Monsters?” The man sounded suspicious.

“It’s a between-place,” the boy said, surprising me by getting in before I could. “A magical trap. From the old days, the Magic Wars. You can get in from anywhere… but it’s hard to get out. Some people do, if the Guide helps them, but… time is different, here. People have come out years after they went in, but they haven’t aged. Haven’t changed. And plenty of them don’t come out at all.”

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[deepwaterfiction]

Text: The houses grew straight out of the ground. Their crooked doors had been formed by the earth itself. 

[dycefic]

Uli was the first to find this place. There was only one house then, a strange and crooked thing of packed earth, roofed with daub and flat stones, its door a misshapen slab of thin rock swinging on thick roots. Uli found it when he was wandering alone and destitute, close to death. He had turned off the road, seeking a place to lie down and die. Then, he says, the trees parted before him, and he found a little clearing, with a strange little house.

When he entered, it was strange within as well. But he found a bed-box filled with dried grass and bracken, water in a stone bowl, and fresh vegetables and fruits lying on a stone shelf. He ate, and drank, and lay down to sleep.

Almost half a year later, a new house began to emerge from the ground. He said it grew out of the ground not like a tree, slender at first then growing outward, but like a stone emerging from sinking flood-water, whole and complete. When it was finished growing, he went inside, to find three box beds, and three stone bowls. He had a garden, then – everything grew there, in the rich forest earth, so fast as to be uncanny – and he had found the overgrown remains of an orchard. So he placed food in the new house, thinking to repay his debt.

That night, Albina and her children stumbled out of the trees, thin and weak. He showed them the house that was meant for them, and the food, and they ate, and drank, and slept, and in the morning they arose and began to plant their own garden.

When I came to the village there were six houses, including mine. I had fled from a husband free with his fists and miserly with food for a mere wife, walking until my shoes wore through and my feet bled. Lost in the forest, about to drop from exhaustion, I found a path that led me to the strange little village. The people who lived there welcomed me, leading me to the house that was meant for me. There were more comforts there than there had been in the first few houses, I learned later. When a new houses began to grow, everyone had prepared a welcome. I had a bed covered with furs and woven blankets, carved wooden cups and dishes, food and tools and everything I might need.

There was a tiny box bed in my house, though I didn’t need it yet. When my child was born, Albina and Maike assisted in the delivery. The hunters, Franz and Nikolaus, brought me meat to eat, and rabbit fur to wrap my baby in. When the seventh house grew, I was already knitting a woolen blanket for the bed.

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[deepwaterfiction]

Deep Water Prompt #2350

My lantern is not a trap, glowing softly on the dark forest floor. You should pick it up and take it. I am begging you to take it.

[dycefic]

Author’s note: It’s been a long time since I tried my hand at a true New Fairy Tale, so here’s one I wrote especially to post on my birthday. It has its roots in a book of Chinese stories I read as a child, with some threads from Russian and Korean fairy tales woven in, and a little bit of Kubo And The Two Strings found its way in as well. No appropriation is intended, as always, only an attempt to create stories that extend outside the Very European Fairy Tale Mold. 

Comments, reblogs, tags and other appreciation make great birthday gifts. I just mention it. ;) @deepwaterwritingprompts, thanks as always.

#

The Three Lanterns

There was no darkness like the darkness of that forest. The huge trees spread out their branches and broad leaves so that no hint of light could reach the ground. During the day, it was gloomy and dim. During the night, it was darker than the deepest cave.

But the road was smooth and level, and there were no bandits. Some said that that was because even bandits feared the place. Others that the forest did not permit them to enter.

But it was safe enough, if you followed the rules. Kept to the path. Harmed nothing. Took nothing. Showed respect. And, above all, so long as you did not stop. To make a camp within the forest was dangerous.

Ju had travelled through the forest several times. He was a travelling peddler, carrying pretty trifles and useful items to small villages off the beaten track, so poor that he was not worth the bother of robbing except for the most desperate of bandits, but surviving well enough. He was familiar with this road, and when night fell he had lit his lantern and continued to walk, leading his two laden ponies. It was a long day’s travel, at walking pace, but there would be a campsite on the other side that he would reach by moonrise.

He was perhaps an hour from the edge of the forest when he saw a light between the trees, in the distance.

He had never seen a light in this forest before, save on the path. “Some fool has tried to make a camp here,” he told the ponies. He often talked to them, having no other company. “Or perhaps wandered off the road and become lost.”

He hesitated, but he was a young man with a kind heart. He carefully tied the ponies to the branch of a dead tree fallen by the road, then faced the forest and bowed. “Please excuse my intrusion,” he said as politely as he knew how, “but I think the person whose light I see must be in trouble. I will go and see, and then come back to the road. Please forgive me if I offend.”

He paused, waiting to see if the forest would indicate approval or disapproval. It didn’t make any especially alarming noises, or throw down a fallen branch in his path, so he decided that he was not to be immediately smote for his insolence. He picked up his lantern again, and began to walk towards the other light.

As he approached the light, he called out. “Hello? Are you a traveller? You should not leave the road, it is not safe.”

But there was no answer, and when he reached the light – not so far from the road, he could still see the glimmer of the second lantern set on one of the ponies’ packs – there was no-one there at all. Only a lantern, a hand-lantern like his own, set on a stone in the middle of a small clearing.

It was a small, ordinary thing, but something about it chilled him. It was… wrong, in all ways wrong. He hadn’t seen another traveller on the road all the time he was in the forest, nor any sign that anyone had passed that way for days past. Even if he had, why would someone leave a lantern burning in this place? In the middle of the forest, like a strange offering? Surely it must be a trap, and he remembered the warnings that one must never take anything from the forest. He stepped back. “My apologies,” he said, trying not to sound nervous. “I will go back – “

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[dycefic]

The Farthest Fuelling Station

Does anyone remember that post about space fuelling stops, because I haven’t seen it in ages, can’t find it, and it is ABSOLUTELY the inspiration for this.

#

Interstellar exploration is, when you get right down to it, no different from travel by steam, or even horse. The real limit isn’t in the power of the engines or the size of the vehicle, it’s in the supply lines. It’s in the fuel.

Fuelling stations are fortresses. Synocrystal is the most precious substance in existence. This moonlet, orbiting a dead planet that circles a minor sun, is more heavily armed than many whole settled planets. And it’s an important post, because this is one of the stations where synocrystal is actually synthesized, not just stored. There aren’t many places it’s even marginally safe to do that, given how the stuff reacts to… well, everything. When I think of how the Ancestors used to fuss over the dangers of nuclear fusion engines, and how much more dangerous synocrystal is, I can’t help but laugh.

We’re a pragmatic species. Given a choice between using an insanely dangerous fuel-source, or being limited to our own solar system by slower-than-light travel, we barely hesitated.

This particular refuel started out badly. My fuelling hours are clearly posted on the beacon. So is the notice that out-of-hours fuelling requires a prior appointment. I’ll make exceptions for the couriers, sometimes, because they don’t always get enough notice to make an appointment and because they’re usually so appreciative, but that’s my business. I’m entitled to an uninterrupted sleep-shift, like any other sentient.

But this wasn’t a courier. This was a big ship, a trader… one of the private company traders, at that. I know they have to register incredibly detailed plans, in case of damaged or delayed cargoes, so they had absolutely no excuse for showing up in the middle of my sleep cycle and blaring alerts at me.  

I dragged myself out of my bunk, ignoring Pepper and Choi’s protests, and went over to the console. There’s one in my private quarters for situations like this, and I reluctantly leave it active on the outside chance that it actually is an emergency. Even as I got there, the contact alert blared again, and I toggled ‘audio only’. “This had better be life or fucking death,” I said, over whatever form greeting they were spitting out. “The posted hours are really damned clear.”

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[dycefic]

The Three Warriors Of Renown

I’m sorry about the long absence - my chronic health issues flared up badly, and other things piled on top of that. Chronic pain is a real creativity-killer, and not being able to sit at a computer for more than 20 minutes doesn’t help either.

This story is a result of going to see Shang Chi, which is a fantastic movie and a beautiful paean to momentum - physical, emotional, literary and narrative. Poetry in motion is a phrase often used, but never more richly deserved. It also reminded me of a very old trope that I haven’t addressed - the Secret Sanctuary, where  the Ancient Way is taught or the Ancient Artifact is guarded or the Doorway To The Dead Realms lies or whatever.  It’s always hidden, usually in the mountains. (Hogwarts qualifies as a subversion of this trope)

So… what if the person who showed up was looking for something else entirely, or was, at least, open to reason?

#

There were once three great warriors, and no one who stood against them ever defeated them. They rose to lead a great army, and at last that army reached the sea, and there was nothing left for them to conquer.

The first looked back at the land they had conquered, and said “This is enough. I desire no more.”

The second looked at the trees that grew near the beach, and said “I will not stop here. I will build a great boat, and find new lands.”

But the third warrior looked at both the sea and the land, and then turned away. “I am weary of fighting,” she said. “I will go another way.” And she walked away, down the beach, and did not heed their calls after her.

She walked, following the water’s edge. The sea led her to an inlet, the inlet to a river, the river to a stream, and at last she found herself in a place she did not know, which she and her comrades had never conquered. It was a peaceful valley, lush and green, and the people who lived there came out to meet her.

“What is this place?” she asked them.

“This is the Valley of Flowers,” they told her. “Few find their way here, for it is a secret place. What were you seeking, that you came here?”

“I sought something new,” she said, looking around her with interest. “I was weary of fighting, and wished to do something else. What do you do here?”

“We farm,” they told her.

So for three years, she joined in the toil of farming, from planting to tending to harvest. She herded beasts, and fed them, and was at peace.

At the end of the three years, she went to the head of the village, who was very old and wise, and said “I am not a farmer. This is not the right work for me. What else do you do here?”

“We make,” the village head told her. “Try making.”

So for seven years she made. She learned to spin, and weave, and sew. She learned to tan leather and make shoes and other things from it. She learned to craft wood, and clay, and metal. She built, and mended, and shaped.

At the end of the seven years, she went to the head of the village again. “I have learned all the crafts of making that are practiced in this valley,” she said. “I am not very good at any of them. They are not what I am looking for. What else do you do in this valley?”

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[writing-prompt-s]

You are a long forgotten god. A small girl leaves a piece of candy at your shrine, and you awaken. Now, you must do everything to protect your High Priestess, the girl, and her entire kindergarten class, your worshipers.

[dycefic]

The stone was immovable, in the past. Indestructible. A spire of granite no mortal hand could even alter.

But mortal hands build clever tools, and these last few hundred years I have lived in dread that they will break this, my sacred stone, the last link that preserves me, a faint shadow of a forgotten god. While my sacred stone stands, I do not, quite, fade away.

I am in a park, now, clipped and tamed, my forests long gone. But they landscape around me and my stone, admiring its beauty, so I do not complain. While they take pleasure in the stone, I am safe.

There is a playground a few lengths away, and the laughter and happy shrieking rouse me a little from my sleep. I watched over children, once. It’s nice to hear them again.

But I don’t truly awaken until the Offering is made.

Little hands touch my stone, with curiosity and a sort of reverence that only the very young feel now. For a child young enough the world is still a mystery, and even an ancient granite stone provokes wonder. So I stir, when she touches the stone, becoming hazily aware.

And then, solemnly, the child places a tiny colourful object in the roughly shaped alcove in the stone’s side, the place where offerings were laid two thousand years ago and more, and I awaken. Many people have put things in that alcove, of course… to take pictures, usually, these days, or putting a lost object where it will be seen. Merely to place an object in the alcove isn’t enough. A true offering is given as a gift, with intent.

As this is.

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[deepwaterfiction]

Text: I spend hours cataloguing the museum’s dusty back room. A capricorn skeleton, disassembled. A seer’s orb that only shows sinking ships. A trunk of seal skins, faded with age. 

#WhaleBoneProject

[dycefic]

I did not choose to work at the Museum, not freely. But I had no family, and no home, and there were no better choices, so I took my place here.

Some people like it here. They wander the beautiful rooms, gaze upon priceless artifacts, or paintings, or elegant reminders of past times in the forms of furniture or clothing or decorative trifles of great expense. It is beautiful, I suppose.

The rooms where the staff live are small and drab. We are required to remain in the Museum, you see. We cannot leave for the duration of our contracts, neither by night nor by day, by the light of sun or moon. We belong to the Museum. Some have been here for decades… or centuries, perhaps. Time passes differently here.

As the newest member of staff, I was sent to do the ‘dull’ work of cataloguing the old exhibits. It had not been done for a long time – the last new member died in the doing, and the one before him got promoted before finishing. It can be dangerous, but I found that I liked the work, and chose to continue it even when another worker came. It is not right, that what we have here is not all treated with the same respect.

Some of the artifacts are dangerous, and kept locked up. I found three which no longer moved on their own, their curses faded or their clockwork run down, and moved them into Inert Storage.

Some of the paintings required tending. Some only need restorations or repairs, and for those I have the tools. Others require company, or… alteration.

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[deepwaterfiction]

Text: Where the last vampire’s heart was staked and buried, a cherry tree grew. Every year we try to steal it’s dark, plump fruit, before the Council burns it down again.

[dycefic]

The stake put through the last vampire’s heart was carved of cherry wood. We know that, because of the tree that grew where it was buried, more than one hundred years ago.

The Council have tried every way to destroy the tree that they can think of, from acid to axes, from poisons to prayers. The tree cannot be cut down, or dug up, or poisoned, or killed.

Fire harms it, to an extent. The leaves and the bark burn, and though the tree never flowers it still bears fruit, which when ripe blazes as if soaked in spirits, with a blue fire. Every year, the tree is burned when the fruit is ripe - at harvest time, in autumn, months after every other cherry is gone. For a week before, the tree is guarded night and day, so that no-one can creep in and try to take a cherry.  It can’t be burned until every fruit is ripe - the green fruit doesn’t burn.

Mothers tell terrible stories about that tree. That the fruits are filled with blood instead of juice. That a child who ate one died bleeding from eyes and ears and nose. That a pig who ate one turned into a monster. The kind of stories mothers tell to make us afraid of what is dangerous.

But there are other stories, that we hear as we grow older. That the tree took root in the vampire, and partook of its magic, and the fruits likewise. That they grant gifts, to those brave enough to eat one. Eyes that see even in the deepest dark, or the strength of a dozen men, or the speed of the wind. Everyone knows the stories, swears that an uncle’s friend or a friend’s cousin got a fruit, and was changed by it, and left the village to make their fortune.

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[dycefic]

A Future For Christmas

Note: Like Sir Terry Pratchett, I really hate The Little Match Girl. It’s the worst Christmas story. And the Gentlemen of Night don’t care for it, either.

This is the 4th story set in the Night Gentlemen’s universe.

#

The Night Gentlemen were tasked with a solemn duty. To guide the dead, to comfort and to reassure, to find lost souls and carry those who were too old or too young to understand walking onward.

He had been a Night Gentleman for a long time. Years. Since before the Great War, and that had been a hard time for them all. But he had had time to learn that you couldn’t stop death. Couldn’t save people, even the youngest children. You could only be there for them, when it was over, and take them to their rest.  

Well…

Almost always.

There were times, when the veils thinned, and the living and the dead drew closer, when faith was stronger and the Powers, perhaps, a little kinder. Times when death could be held off long enough for a farewell, or one life exchanged for another, or…

Or something.

There were times.

It was Christmas Eve. One of the strongest times. A time when even Death could be persuaded to wink, now and then. Death was blind to good or evil, justice or injustice, but not to kindness. Never to that. Death gave ease, when the pain was too great, and sent the Night Gentlemen to bring comfort and companionship on the journey. And Christmas was a special time for kindness.

Even so…

He could not give life to one who was dying, where no exchange was offered. He had himself passed beyond the veil, and the dead could not give life.

But comfort, surely, was permissible, on this night of all nights.

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