You felt strong fingers grip your bicep, firm but not hard enough to bruise. The hand pulled you to the side, fast enough that you nearly tripped over your own feet.
“What the hell, Dean?”
The hunter said nothing, just tipped his chin towards where you’d been walking, where you’d just been about to step.
There, in the dirt path, was a pile of steaming–
“Horse shit,” Dean said concisely, a scowl on his face. He looked around, making sure no more piles were in the vicinity. “This place is disgusting.”
“It’s authentic,” you said, trying to keep a straight face.
“Authentic? That guy over there’s on a cell phone. That woman in the candle tent is paying for her fifteen new candles with a credit card!” The crease in his brow deepened. “And who the hell buys fifteen candles at one time? There’s something suspicious about her…”
“Dean,” Sam hissed from the other side of his brother, watching as Dean’s other hand inched toward his belt, toward the gun. “Do not pull your gun on that woman.”
“Lighten up, Dean,” you said. “Try to enjoy yourself.”
“Enjoy myself?” Dean repeated. “We’re out here, baking in the sun, almost stepping in shit, watching people flounce around in medieval clothing, acting as if that time period was really better than what we have today. I mean, come on, half these people would’ve bit it during the Black Plague, and they know it!”
Sam gave a pained smile to an aghast family that passed by, the mother covering her young child’s ears with her hands. “Dean, tone it down.”
“No, Sammy, I will not. I’m tired of being strung along by you two to these ridiculous places all in the name of ‘fun’. This isn’t ‘fun’-- this is a history lesson in the middle of nowhere. And–” Dean’s eyes widened, his rant halting. He sniffed once, twice. “Is that…” He turned, his eyes landing on the source of the smell. “Oh, hell yeah. Now that’s what I’m talking about!”
You and Sam watched as Dean trotted over to the stall selling smoked turkey legs.
“Remind me why we brought him with us?” Sam said quietly to you.
“Because you and I both know he’s secretly a nerd.”
“And a glutton,” Sam added, grimacing slightly at the two oversized turkey legs in his brother’s hands. “Is that… bacon-wrapped?”
Dean nodded as he took a huge bite from one. “You know it.” He took another bite before even swallowing the first. “Guy said there’s a jousting tournament in five minutes. Come on!”
He turned and headed to the left at a quick pace.
“Weaponry and meat,” you said with a small shake of your head. “And Dean thought this wouldn’t be up his alley.”
You and Sam followed the elder hunter. Your eyes noticed the mess just a split-second before disaster. “Dean, look–!”
The two of you heard the squish, even from a few feet away. Dean froze in place, looking down at his boot, fully pressed into a smelly brown heap. “Son of a bitch!”
"Clean-Up On Aisle ???": A Flash-Fiction Friday Fic
Hello to long-time readers/followers and anyone new to my blog! Been meaning to participate in a Flash-Fiction Friday Prompt Challenge from @flashfictionfridayofficial for a while & figured I'd give this week's one a go. Ordinarily what I write is related to my main fantasy WIP The Heralds of Blood (chapters posted weekly, you can find the prologue & Ch. 1-10 on my blog's pinned post). However, this fic is just a fun, quick little original eldritch horror-in-mundane setting story I've written for the prompt! Enjoy!
Prompt: Some things need to be said multiple times. Because they're important, because people don't seem to listen or because it's simply a pleasure to repeat this one very message. So tell us what those words are! What can't your character say enough and why?
Word Count: 997 (yeah, cutting it close, sorry)
Rating: Eh, PG, PG-13-ish? Shouldn't be anything too awful beyond mild cursing & mild grotesque fantasy imagery
"Clean-Up On Aisle ???" can be found under the read-more!:
"Don't think what you're looking for is down this way," droned Ryan, words almost drowned out by notification beeps from his phone and the cheesy muzak playing overhead. "We should turn back."
Ben drummed his fingers in irritation against the shopping cart handle, swore under his breath. He wanted to like Ryan, truly he did, but three weeks of his new roommate's dour moods and dubious behaviors had already put the shaggy-haired short-stack on his shit list. The repeated reminders of how new Ben was to the local supermarket-to everything local-only pushed Ryan further up that list.
Of course, Ryan was Sly's friend, so Ben tolerated him for his sake. Sly was the only friend Ben had at Greyridge University, a year older and former classmate back in high school upstate. When he'd heard Ben was accepted by his staid yet stately safety school, Sly had quickly arranged things so they'd be roommates-with the caveat that their association had a third member. An obnoxious member always glued to his phone, who was perpetually messy, had a spoiled-rotten ferret that liked to bite, constantly wandered around their tiny apartment naked and always pointed out the obvious.
Sly said he was a good guy when you got to know him. So Ben put up with Ryan, just as he put up with calling his old friend by his ridiculous nickname (Silas was an even more ridiculous and deeply old-fashioned name, to boot. But that's what you got when your parents were English professors specializing in Victorian literature)
The muzak overhead switched to a crackly ad about avocados, disturbing Ben's internal ramble. At the end of Aisle 19, past half-empty shelves of distressed egg cartons and low-fat ricotta cheese near expiration, Ben made a sharp right turn. The wheels of the rusty cart squeaked piteously against the pale green checkerboard-patterned linoleum.
"Don't think we'll find the hot dogs in the dairy department, Ben," Ryan breathed again, fiddling with the buttons of his black-and-white plaid shirt. At least he wasn't twanging his stupid useless suspenders again, which also grated on Ben's nerves. "We should turn back."
"That cute blonde clerk said we'd find them back here!" Ben snapped, voice a harsh, raspy whisper. He wound up pulling on one of the thin black suspenders holding up Ryan's gray jeans, snapping them against his slender chest. "The store back home had the layout as dairy, deli, meat then baked goods, so why not here? Why would the cashier lie?"
"Cause you're kind of an asshole? And you're new to town? It is fun messing with new people, after all."
Ben took a deep breath, tugged his dark blue polo shirt down so it'd stop riding up, ran fingers through his wavy brown hair, tried to calm his frayed nerves. Yeah, he was being an ass, wasn't he?
"I'm sorry, Ryan. Didn't mean to be a joyless jerk. I hate being in such a strange town where everything's different and everyone's a stranger, I hate having a constant headache from studying all night for that stupid exam on Thursday. I feel like I'm stranded on an alien planet, waiting to be devoured by local wildlife. So yeah, I'm a bit agitated. You don't deserve to have me dump that on you."
"Eh, maybe I do a little, I kinda suck. Anyway, simple logic dictates different stores in different towns have different layouts, even in the same brand. Won't find what you want here. We should turn back."
"Sly already wandered this way to find his half of the list, we're staying put. Don't see him around or anyone working the area, though, maybe we can find help out back."
Ben pushed back a polished red u-boat laden with yogurt crates, gently rapping at the slate-gray doors to the rear facilities. He knew some markets like this had public restrooms out back and didn't usually mind customers poking inside. Still, he tried to be polite when his short temper let him.
"No one will help you back there. We should turn back."
"Will you stop saying that?! I-"
Whatever Ben was about to say was cut off by what he saw in the backroom. No towering steel shelves of boxes nor palates of plastic-wrapped food, no employees answering phones.
What he saw instead was a vast expanse of nothing, a rippling pool of undulating shadow. At the center of the darkling void, a column of golden light shone bright yet was almost subsumed.
In that light stood a person. Tall, portly, curly black hair, sideburns and spectacles, wearing checkered trousers and a black t-shirt for some metal band he only kinda liked.
"Sly! What are you doing here? The hell is this?"
Ben tread carefully across the shadows, glad there was still surface to walk on. This wasn't just a blackout; it was an unusual, extraordinary darkness, the night come to life.
When Ben got to the center, he waved his hand in front of his friend's frozen face. "Earth to Sly! Hello?! Silas, you read me?"
Silent, motionless, Sly remained in place. Then his mouth opened and a voice that wasn't his poured out:
"WE HUNGER. IT IS TIME TO FEED."
"Shit!" Ben leaped back so far it was almost as if his skeleton tried to flee his skin. The shadows swallowed the light and Sly with it. Then the moving mass of darkness surged towards him.
Ben fell back into the supermarket, expecting to find it was all a weird daydream, to find bright fluorescent lights, coolers full of orange juice and pie crusts, Ryan and the cart.
But instead, he found a barren gray wasteland, a grim, green sky, a ruined, empty world.
As massive coiling shadowy tentacles pulled Ben screaming back into the void, he thought he heard an overhead announcement say 'Clean-Up On Aisle-" before being cut off.
Then one more voice, incessant as Ben was indeed devoured by the local alien wildlife:
@flashfictionfridayofficial two days late, but I got it done eventually
----
The shock of the annoucements of the attacks (so many, so many dead) still ripples through the theatre, a pall of silence following the instinctive cries of horror at the toll.
But there's always one.
"Ecco" Below him in the ranks of chairs Tedesco leans forwards, eyes locked on Dean Lawrence
"Ecco vediamo il risultato della dottrina del relativismo tanto amata dai nostri fratelli liberali!" The Patriarch is speaking fast, but he can follow the gist of the italian as the older man rises to his feet and continues to rant. His heart flinches at the disparagment of another religion(and there really aren't that many, only one in Rome, he's sure.)
Those bigoted tone drives Cardinal Bellini to his feet, shouting back at Tedesco, but Tedesco throws it straightback in the man's faceas he bellows "We should all be ashamed!"
Bellini sits back down, whatever bravado he'd found now punctured -gone.
Ashamed of what? Of kindness, of tolerance? Of ackowledging that other people worship differently, we share many stories.
Tedesco goes on, louder- vicious words "Religious war..."
No, No No, you call for that, when all it would do is spill blood, everyone's blood. And you (in your eyes), would be sat here in Rome, far from the danger. Is the world not torn apart enough as it is.
"To fight these animals!!"
Finally, finally, there is uproar, shouts of horror, but also of approval.
Animals, no... humans, men and woman alike to those who sit here, frankly some of them are better, kinder, than some of you who sit here. But there is no clear rebuttal, Bellini sits head bowed, Sabbadin too.
Holy Father, you pointed me to here, through Monsignior to Cardinal. You knew these men. Will no-one say something?
He gets to his feet "My Brother Cardinal."
The Dean's eyes rise to him, and as he repeats himself as the others quiet,turning his head down to look at Tedesco, "My Brother Cardinal, with respect, what do you know of war?"
For @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt #279 Warm Hands.
Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go
Characters: Gordon and Virgil
Word Count: approx 953
Domestic fluff (no warnings apply as far as I can tell).
Gordon was well known within his family for suffering from the affliction of cold hands. Virgil in particular had fallen victim to icy fingers placed against warm skin on numerous occasions. But, in his defence, Gordon found this particular big brother was the most effective heat source for warming frosty digits.
Of course, it also helped that Virgil was often the only brother in range when this was needed, and despite the initial grumbling, he was also usually quite amenable to lending body heat to a little brother in need.
Virgil himself seemed to always have warm hands – at least in Gordon’s experience. It didn’t seem to matter where he was, or what he was doing, if Gordon placed a distractingly cold hand anywhere on Virgil’s exposed skin there was glorious warmth to be shared. Then those familiar, big, warm hands would soon be deployed to enfold his own and work some much needed heat into them.
It kind of made sense. Virgil’s hands always seemed to be moving – dancing across the piano keys, applying brushstrokes to canvas, or sketching on almost any surface, artfully deploying exactly the right tool for anything that needed fixing, or gently but deftly applying first aid.
But for Gordon the most memorable thing those well-muscled and well-used hands could do was to give expert massages to sooth overworked swimmer’s muscles, or gently relax a cramp. He couldn’t remember how or when it started, but it had been quite a regular thing between them. Somehow Virgil always seemed to know exactly when he needed the sweet relief of warmth and pressure working all the tension out of his back, shoulders and neck, and would be there to provide it in exactly the right measure.
He'd often wished he could return the favour, and with today’s rescue being as rough as it was, Gordon could see that now was the perfect time to do so. But he couldn’t even approach those heavy-lifting muscles without doing some important preparation first.
Luckily, preparation was something Gordon was very good at. He usually employed this talent when planning pranks, but the surprise he was planning this time should produce a much more favourable response. And preparation for this one had begun during post-flight checks when Thunderbird Two had returned to her hangar.
Under the guise of restocking the medical supplies Gordon had grabbed a couple of the tiny packets containing air-activated heat packs. Later, once checks were completed, uniforms shed and he’d showered and changed into his regular attire, the packets were opened and shaken and then clutched in each hand.
After half an hour with the little heat packets kept within reach – in his pockets when not in direct contact with his hands – he deemed himself ready to put the next phase of the plan into action.
Virgil was sitting at their dad’s desk, most likely making a start on post-rescue paperwork when Gordon decided to make his move. Making his stealthy approach from behind, avoiding the squeaky floorboard, he gave the little heat packs in each pocket one last firm squeeze each.
When he placed his warm hands on his big brother’s shoulders he felt the muscles tense at the unexpected contact.
“Gor- . . . Gordon?” Virgil’s voice started with the low warning tone that usually accompanied an unapproved activity, but quickly rose in pitch and inflection.
“The one and only!”
As Virgil tried to turn his head to face him, Gordon gently redirected the movement with one hand and started kneading tense muscles with the other.
“What are you doing?” Virgil directed his gaze forward again, allowing Gordon to knead with both hands. “And how are your hands so warm? They’re never this warm! What did you do?”
Gordon chuckled. “Don’t you worry about that. Just relax and let me do this for you.”
Right on cue he found and pressed against a particularly tough little knot that had Virgil groaning and relaxing into the massage as the knot released. There was an easy silence between them for a while, broken only by the soft grunts that let Gordon know he was finding all the right spots.
“Where’d you learn to do this?” Virgil asked somewhat sleepily.
“Kind of from you. I’ve been on the receiving end enough times.” He paused a moment, concentrating his attention on another nasty knot. “But I’ve always kind of wondered how you learned to be so good at giving massages.”
“I guess it started when you decided to get serious about swimming competitively. I wanted to be able to support you, and I had an interest in medical treatments, so I looked into the kinds of medical complaints swimmers often experienced and how to treat them. I mostly learned from video tutorials and trial and error on unsuspecting family members.”
Gordon laughed again. “Well, I’m very glad you did. Of all the massages I’ve had, yours are always the best.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gordon. There’s no way my efforts can compare with a professional.”
Gordon paused his thumb circles long enough to offer a playful tap to the side of Virgil’s head.
“I’m not kidding, Virge. You’re massage skills are awesome, and I need you to know I appreciate every single one you’ve given me over the years. And if the tension that was in these heavy lifting muscles is anything to go by, I think I need more chances to pay you back.”
It was Virgil’s turn to give a chuckle.
“If you think I’m bad you should try it on Scott. When he’s tense his neck and shoulder muscles feel like steel girders.”
They were both laughing now. “No, I think I’ll leave Scott’s tense muscles to your magic fingers!”
wc: 1000
prompt: @flashfictionfridayofficial two truths one lie
notes: attached to HOTN
“I’ll pay you back,” Evangeline promises, stabbing her fork into a pile of scrambled eggs, ignoring the whisps of steam as she shovels a good bit into her mouth. She winces as the eggs burn her mouth, but her grumbling stomach wins out and she chews as quickly as possible before swallowing. When she reaches for her juice, she looks up and meets Anthony’s gaze, who looks back at her with faint amusement. “Sorry.”
He huffs out a laugh, slouching against the upholstered bench, and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s the least I can do.” One hand loosely holds his own glass, ice gently tapping against the glass as he rotates it in small circles, and she looks down at his empty side of the table.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” she asks, scooting her plate towards the middle. It feels weird to be the only one eating and the fact he paid for the food is making guilt creep up her stomach.
Anthony offers a small smile and pushes her plate back with the tips of his fingers. “I’m fine, really. It’s not like I need food,” he reminds her. When she doesn’t pull the plate back to her, he nudges it again. “Please, eat.”
Evangeline bites at the inside of her cheek, glancing around the sparsely filled diner, and takes the plate with a sigh. “You can eat food, though, right?” she asks as she picks up a piece of toast. “Or can you not? There’s conflicting information in the archives.”
He motions with his hand, kind of shrugging, and straightens up. “It depends on the vampire,” he answers, watching as she takes a bite. “Some can, some can’t, and some won’t.”
“And you?”
“I can. I don’t do it very often, but I get. . .a craving every once in a while.”
She hums, plucking a piece of bacon off the plate, and her head tilts in consideration. “You know, I don’t know all that much about you,” she states, raising an eyebrow at him. “Considering your position.”
“Coming from the woman who just told me her name —” he glances down at his watch “—four hours ago.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a bigwig vampire lord,” she teases with a grin, wiping her fingers clean with a napkin. “Should I call you Lord DuPont?”
The flat, unamused look on his face makes her laugh and she takes another sip of her drink.
“I’ll have you know I voted no on that,” he says dryly, “I thought it was pretentious.”
“Really? What did you want?”
“Councilman would’ve been fine.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Still a bit pretentious.”
“Not as much. Besides, you all co-opted it didn’t you?”
“To be fair, I think it’s kind of dying out. Only my Safta uses it and only on special occasions.”
The mention of her grandmother causes a barely noticeable reaction, a quick press of his lips, the flex of his fingers on his glass, but she curses herself all the same. Dammit. She eats some more eggs as if that would keep her from putting her foot back in her mouth.
“Anyway,” Evangeline says, trying to keep her breezy tone. She doesn’t want to ruin the fun. “Do you like games?”
Anthony raises an eyebrow at her, face relaxing, before propping his elbows onto the table. “Depends on the game.”
“Well we’ve established that I don’t know much about you,” she says with a wry grin, “And you don’t know much about me. Let’s make a game out of it. Two truths and a lie.”
“And what would stop you from telling all lies?” Anthony asks, leaning forward.
She rolls her eyes. “I should be asking you that,” she tells him, “After all, you’re the one that can hear heartbeats. But if it makes you feel better —” she holds up one hand and crosses her heart with the other “— there. Happy?”
Anthony’s lips quirk up and he looks her up and down. “Lucky for you, the sounds of your digestion are currently drowning out that heartbeat of yours. Plus, I’m not a cheater.”
Her mouth drop open just a bit — stupid embarrassment warming her face at the idea he can hear all the gurgling and god knows what else going on — and she winces. “Sorry,” she apologizes, and her face heats up even more when he laughs.
He shrugs and holds out his hands, palms up. “It’s all body noises, Evangeline, no big deal. You get used to after awhile. And you don’t need to keep apologizing.”
Anthony makes a sound, like he’s considering his options, as he settles back in his seat. “I’ll go first,” he offers and counts them off, “One: I met Napoleon Bonaparte just before the Battle of Waterloo. Two: I have an original copy of the First Folio. Three: I’ve pet a tiger.”
Now it’s Evangeline who sits forward, staring Anthony down, as she thinks over the choices. He’s old enough, she thinks to herself, and, unbelievably, the tiger sounds too mundane to be a lie. “It has to be two,” she says finally, “There’s no fucking way you have an original copy.” Back in undergrad, she had the chance to see one at the Folger’s Library and that shit was kept under lock and key. No way some dude in New York just has a copy.
When Anthony’s response is only a widening grin, she curses and takes another drink. “Seriously?” she asks incredulously, looking at him with wide eyes.
“Yes,” he answers with a grin, smug satisfaction rolling off him. “In my private collection. I was in Balkans towards the end of Napoleon’s campaign. The tiger had belonged to an old acquaintance of mine.” Anthony holds out a hand. “Your turn.”
How the hell is she supposed to keep up with that? “Um,” she says, thinking it over, “Hm. Okay, one: I did my first solo hunt when I was fourteen. Two: I went to Greece for a summer back in college. Three: I have a favor from the Fae Queen.”
Anthony studies her for one long moment, a furrow in his brow, before he tilts his head. “Three. She hasn’t given favors in decades.”
Man, they’re both shit at this. “Decade and a half,” she replies, victoriously taking a bite out of another piece of bacon. She gestures in his direction with it. “I was thirteen my first hunt.”
His eyebrows raise at that. “Really? Thirteen?” he asks, “That is. . .surprising. Jocasta doesn’t seem like the type to start them young.”
Evangeline shrugs, surprised at the casual use of Safta’s name, and pushes her plate away. “Needs must and all that.”
Thanks to @flashfictionfridayofficial for the prompt!
~
That year had been marked by two poor harvests of salmon.
And then heat, rock falling from the sky, little odd streaks of light and then the ocean sinking away only to return as a wave blotting out the sun.
That was the notes that had been written in the record book of the small fishing village. That was the "pillow" the apprentice scribe had lain it's head on, a small strip of it's cloth sack wrapped over his big toe to ease the blisters, another small scrap to wipe the mud off a rock, a nice low place to sit, while looking at the remains of a house, the pale logs smeared across the remains of the ground like little toothpicks.
And their welcoming feast was briny fish, little mice hunted from the remaining plains by arrow, berries and the salt grass that would grow in the brackish mud, not even rye. Boiled water now accompanied "dessert".
But at least the mountain stayed still beneath their feet. At least the earth did not shake. The camp fires made a tiny point of brightness outside of which a wild dog whined and the stars gleamed. At least there was quiet.
Halfway through writing this I'd forgotten the first word was 'invisible' and was remembering it as 'uninvited'. Both are true of the fic, haha.
-
Echoes of Wisdom mini-fic, minor spoilers up to the 'Still Missing' quest and start of 'Lands of the Goddesses'.
Set in Kakariko Village.
Available on Ao3 and below the readmore.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
--
The cat watches Tri unerringly.
Zelda watches the cat, just as fascinated. She hasn't had this much of an opportunity to stop and observe things in a while. The last few weeks have been full-on — always running to the next task, the next rift — always looking over her shoulder to see whether the impostors had tracked her down and were sending soldiers after her. Now that her father and his advisors are free again, she can rest easier. She doesn't have to worry about the wanted posters put all around Hyrule Field. Just the volcano she has to climb tomorrow, and the mountains after that.
Kakariko Village is a quaint little place, though, and everyone here is so very kind. Even the cats are as welcoming as her own sweet kitten back at home. Zelda is used to kindness, of course — everyone in Castle Town is very nice to her, and she's met so many helpful people during her journey -- but a part of her still half expects to find an enemy Echo in amongst the people she meets, the way the voids have mimicked her father and his advisors and the silent swordsman...
There's been none of that here. Just cuccos flying the coop, errant cats, and a girl so desperate to dig up her hidden stash of rupees that she'd risk an allergic reaction. The world outside the castle really is strange. Zelda finds herself liking it.
The cat is still watching Tri. The cat's granny remains oblivious to Tri's presence. The old woman never fell into a rift, so she hasn't ever met Tri or one of Tri's friends. The cat won't have fallen into a rift either, though, and that's curious. Zelda has to wonder why the cat can see her companion when most living creatures can't.
Maybe it would help if she was wearing the funny cat costume the girl from the shop had given her. Zelda can't change into it now — Granny's house is a single-room affair, so there's nothing to hide behind for long enough to change clothes. The wired headband is easy enough to slip on, though. The magic doesn't work quite so well without the full costume, but the ears work well enough to understand the cat's low grumble of confusion. Zelda wonders whether it'll let her say what she wants to.
Mrrow!
The cat sits up, still staring at Tri but with an ear half-cocked towards Zelda.
Emboldened by Zelda's attempt at talking to it, Tri drifts a little closer to the cat despite its lashing tail and tries a friendly, 'Hello?'
Then Tri has to bounce out of the way as the cat makes a leap at them. The cat looks startled to have met with empty air. It sits back down, tail curling and uncurling around its legs, staring at the corner of the ceiling where Tri had taken refuge.
Zelda tries again. Mrrow?
Granny's head snaps up. "What is it, precious little fella — Oh! Was that you just now?" Her surprise fades rapidly; she laughs, belly-deep, loud enough to fill the room. "You've got a talent for mimicry going on there, miss. Why, it's almost like my little Patches has an echo!"
Zelda giggles a little nervously, and Tri chimes in: 'That is. How do you describe this feeling? It's funny.'
Zelda can't exactly respond, so she doesn't. "I have a cat too," she says instead, wrapping her hands aroung the cup of steaming tea the old lady had pressed on her almost as soon as she walked in through the door — "I like talking with her." Even if Jasmine was always more interested in catching a nap in a perfectly-formed sunbeam than she was responding to Zelda's attempts to miaow at her, or if she was happier feigning indifference whenever Zelda tried following her up to the balconies or parapets she favoured.
'Granny,' complains the cat, 'I don't like the gold thing. Make it go away.'
"Is something up there?" Granny peers at the ceiling. "Hmm... I can't see it. But I know you'll keep an eye on it for me, won't you, Patches?"
Patches makes a grumbling sound and pins Zelda with a grumpy green stare. 'You can see it,' he says. 'Make it go away! I don't want it in my house!'
Mrrow, Zelda replies. She doesn't think anyone can tell Tri what to do. And she wouldn't feel comfortable having Tri away for her for long.
'...Fine,' says Patches, though he doesn't sound fine about it. 'It can stay, but I'm not happy - Fish?'
Because Granny has just brought supper over to the table - a creamy fish soup (with scraps for Patches), and a curious baked custard studded with refreshing grapes - and they're all too busy eating to worry about Patches' dislike of the second, unexpected guest.
But as Granny brings Zelda an extra quilt to lay on her borrowed bed, she spots Tri still floating near the table - and Patches, curled up on Granny's chair, one green eye still open and tail slowly lashing.
Watching the invisible guest his Granny can't see, just in case.
Prompt: Fallen (TwstOber) & @flashfictionfridayofficial
They're only mentioned in this, but Asher, Merle, and Porfirio are OCs of mine. They're first-years who are in Diasomnia dorm.
Crewel knew he should have taken a sick day. Instead of remaining secure in the staff quarters, he instead braved the halls filled with immature mages. He removed all the unstable ingredients from the shelves in the alchemy lab and locked away every potion in the potions classroom.
And still—like every year—he stared out at the absolute chaos destroying his classroom.
A large white dog loudly barked at a purple cat loudly cackling next to an upturned cauldron. A small, lavender Pomeranian ran circles around the large white dog, adding his high-pitched barks to the ruckus. A black cat leaped from one table to another, hissing a the red-orange retriever chased after it. A blue nosed pitbull carefully nosed an orange cat shaking under a desk, and the howls of surprise the feline emitted would make anyone believe it was being skinned alive. A very insistent Doberman circled the classroom, barking at every cat and dog who didn’t move fast enough for him.
Grim, his only student not affected by the overpowered potion, yowled from the other end of the classroom. “Stop sniffing my tail! Just because you’re a dog now doesn’t you need to sniff every little thing. Yuu! Help!”
A little black terrier broke free of the barking dogs and hissing cats. She trotted right up to Crewel and sat next to his foot. She looked up at him with big black eyes. Crewel scoffed. “Don’t act all innocent. There’s a reason I assigned book work today. Some of the most powerful potions can only be brewed on nights of a full moon. The supermoon passing now all but guaranteed this result.”
Yuu primly barked at him before trotting off to stop Epel the Pomeranian from eating the ears off Porfirio the Cackling Purple Cat. White Dog Jack stood on his hind legs to grab the cauldron Porfirio guarded. He was thrown off balance when Ace the Red Retriever ran into him while chasing Merle the Black Cat. The cauldron fell to the floor with a mighty crash, causing Asher the Jumpy Orange Cat to reflexively latch onto Deuce the Blue Nosed Pitbull. The pained yowl from Deuce caused Sebek the Obnoxious Doberman to immediately bark what Crewel imagined was insults.
Yuu the Terrier trotted around the classroom before plopping next to him again. Crewel sighed and knelt to pat the top of her head. “Even with the potion strengthened by the supermoon, it should wear off in a few minutes. After that, all of you pups will scrub the cauldrons until I deem them spotless.” Yuu yipped. Crewel lightly pulled at her ear and stood. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand me. You knew exactly which lever to pull to activate the emergency shower to wash off the potion.”
Yuu yipped again and trotted off to make another round of the classroom. Crewel shook his head and retreated to his desk. There was nothing he could do, so he may as well catch up on paperwork. The only thing that could possibly make the situation worse was—
“Pop quiz!”
Crewel dropped his head into his hands and groaned. He ignored Crowley’s surprised exclamations and the chorus of barks and yowls that answered him. Next year, he planned to take off the entire week.
