#sfwc

[shortfictionweeklychallenge]

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So many prompts to choose from. What can we find in the archive today?

Bad Advice: What’s the worst advice your character received? Something so patently wrong they disregarded it immediately and questioned the giver’s sanity or intelligence? Something they thought was valid but proved less so in practice? Something they fervently believed in until their own repeated experiences made them change their mind? Write about your character and some colossally bad advice.

[nine-blessed-hero]

Feet Dusted from a Million Flowers

CW Bee & food mentions, fantasy religion Universe: Vanilla Oblivion Prompts used: 'Bees' from the 2022 @tes-summer-fest list, 'Festive Food' from @shortfictionweeklychallenge & 'Flower' from @dayundying's 'New Years Scrolls'. Title is taken from Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury. Also available on AO3

[Being an excerpt of Arkved of Cheydinhal's journal, c. 3E430]

County Skingrad – gateway to the West Weald, home of wine- and pastry-makers alike. But there is another profession which calls the Weald home: the humble apiarist.

I remember that spring well. The roads from Cheydinhal had just cleared of snow, allowing the first of the new-year's post through, and with it an invitation from my some-time acquaintance, Gunder of Colovian Traders. That winter had been especially bitter, so I jumped at the chance for some Southern weather.

We spent a few warm days in idleness before his assistant, Eyja – in bringing out a tray of aperitif glasses – confessed that Gunder's invite was not as altruistic as it had first appeared. In fact, she had begged him to invite me so that she would have an unbiased test subject for her meads. As she poured samples from several bottles, she explained that the nearby hamlet of Skestead held a festival to celebrate the awakening of the bees in Spring, when the Weald begins to bloom. Part of which were competitions – she added, sliding the tipples towards me – including one to see who could make the best mead. I found myself both amused by her ploy, and honoured that she would choose me as her sampler. All her meads were very fine, but which – she needed to know – would be the one she entered in the competition? All that afternoon I sampled and compared, finally selecting that which I felt was the best of the proffered options. She, delighted with my choice and the end of her agonising, asked me to join her at the festival; a prospect to which I gladly agreed.

––

The day of the festival dawned hot and bright; if not for the nip in the breeze one might have thought it the height of summer!

Gay pennants of yellow hues, strung between the houses, flapped in the breeze. Arrayed on the village green were tables ladened with cakes and candles, mead and medicines, and all manner of other related items for sale. Children wearing crowns of columbine and yellow flax, or wings of leaf and twig, chased each other in some game with shrieks of glee.

Eyja tugged on my arm, pulling me from my awed reverie, and I followed her to the competition table so she could submit her entry. Casting my gaze over the magnificent entries in all the disparate categories, I envied not the judges; for I did not know how they would choose amongst such prestigious submissions!

We took some time then to amble along the items for sale – I filling my bag to bulging with knick knacks and gifts, Eyja chattering to those she knew – before a particular stall caught her eye, and she with a squeal, dragged me over. "These," she informed me, as she paid for two waxed bags, "are the best part of the festival." Eyja handed me one bag, and from her own plucked a golden lump, hard but filled with bubble-holes and lightly crumbling. She held it triumphantly, announcing, "Honeycomb toffee!" before proceeding to crunch off a corner with a grin. I smiled, and selected a small part for myself. It was sweet and crunchy with a slight metallic tang – a most enjoyable sweet.

Then, from the center of the green, came the rumble of a drum. We drifted over to join the crowd, as a stout, tanned gentleman – evidently the provost of this little commune – gave a speech, welcoming all to the festival. He then gave the floor to a small band and a collection of children who moved in an impressively elaborate dance – ducking and swerving and wiggling and jumping! Eyja commented to me that it was known as the Waggle Dance, meant to imitate the movement of the bees. After the children had done their part, the little 'arena' was filled with adults in green robes, accented by white feathers and furs. Again, the band struck up – but rather than a frenzied tune, now they played sedately; echoing, I thought, the movement of the wind over the heath and the call of birds on the wing.

These worshipers of Kynareth began to sing a wordless hymn as they led the crowd in a procession towards the village apiary. At first their voices were like the sway of trees and the ease of nature, but as we approached the hives they began to trill. One by one they started, offset from the previous singer, until their trilling, undulating, voices overlaid to make a buzzing rill. Then I beheld a curious thing indeed. Where the hives had been lifeless, I now saw movement – a small furred bee trotting out to look up at the priestess. Soon the choir was joined in harmony by a buzzing from the hives, as slowly the bees trickled out to surround the priestess, the singers, and mill about the crowd. I saw several children take flowers from their crowns to hold out for the bees to investigate. A few even came to me, seemingly interested in the lingering sweetness on my fingers. The priestess changed the pitch of her tone, and slowly the bees swarmed around her. While the choir still kept their buzz, the priestess began speaking to the bees in a low voice. At my tilted head, Eyja whispered that the priestess was giving the bees any news from overwinter – who in the village had died, who'd borne children or gotten wed. She later elaborated that the villagers believed the bees took prayers to Kynareth and brought back blessings for the small, sick, or elderly, and thus they must be given all the news. A fascinating concept! Especially as orthodoxy holds that birds are Kynareth's messengers.

Soon enough, all the news was told and one-by-one the singer's voices fell silent. The bees went about the business of being bees and the crowd dispersed back to the village green. A Vintner's lunch of cured meat, cheese and wine was taken in the shade of a spreading elm, as we listened to the band and watched people dance – Eyja jumping up to join in at points. The afternoon wore on with competitive hive-making and lumber trimming, until the provost once again took the crowd's attention for the giving of prizes.

Eyja and I listened and clapped politely as the categories were announced, and the winners given prizes of money or tools. "And finally, but by no means least," the provost said, "the meads." Eyja gripped my arm, her eyes riveted. "Honourable mention: Jeannie Idolus." An older woman with white hair accepted her prize of a demijohn valve. "Third place: Renwic Lort." A merry young man, flower crown a-tilt, accepted his prize of a pack of isinglass. "Second place: Eyja of Skingrad." Eyja gave a small squeak, shaking my arm. With a nudge, she practically skipped towards the Provost for her prize of an empty firkin cask – while I clapped loudly, of course. Skipping back she handed me the firkin to examine, exclaiming it had been used to brew Colovian brandy. "First place: Lig gra-Dush" Eyja surprised me by whooping and hollering loudy for the orc dame collecting a cash prize along with her own firkin and pack of isinglass.

"You aren't disappointed you didn't come first?" I asked, as the setting sun chased us down the road towards Skingrad amid a pack of other revelers. "Not at all," said she. "I only got an honourable mention last year, so I'm happy to have placed higher. That might be because Master Lort has been sampling too much of his own faire to brew straight, but a win is a win." "Indeed." "Missus gra-Dush really does deserve first place though – her meads are truly excellent and have won the past few years. Beating her next year will be difficult, but," Eyja raised her fist, "I'm up for the challenge." She flashed me a grin, and I laughed with her exuberance. The sandy road passed under our feet for a time, when suddenly Eyja said, "You know, there's another festival in a town halfway along the Orange Road where they use sugar maple sap instead of honey. I've always wanted to go." I laughed again. "Would you like someone, perhaps a tall man with golden skin, to accompany you to said festival?" She flushed. "Am I that obvious?" "A little," I teased, jostling her shoulder. "But, fortuitously for you, I happen to quite enjoy eccentric little festivals and would be most pleased to attend with you." She beamed, bright as the lowering sun behind us and took my arm. "Then it's agreed!"

––

Sitting now back in Cheydinhal, I'm crunching on a block of honeycomb toffee as I write – this time from the town's confectioner, who was thrilled to receive news of a sweet he could replicate. Small though it was, the Skestead Bee festival was a joyous time; and, remembering well the ceremony, I have not only planted a small flower patch, but whenever I see a bee I relay to it any town news I think it may have missed.

And of the Maple festival? Methinks that is another tale to be told anon…

[druidx]

Family is what you make of it

CW: adoption, adoptive vs biological siblings Used the 'brotherhood/sisterhood' prompt from @shortfictionweeklychallenge to help break my creative block and give Wickerswitch some love. Contcrit welcome (does it feel forced, or awkward in any way?).

The world was shimmering green. Fresh-borne leaves of broad-limbed trees reached down. Bold fiddleheads and hazy bluebell reached up. Glittering sunlight sparkled in between, a cool breeze bringing ozone and honey-sweetness. Beneath their boots, the stony track was softened by grass. "Are you sure you're ready for this, Wick?" Elo asked, following her adopted brother through the ferns. He glanced back, brown eyes more alive than she'd ever seen them before. "Why wouldn't I be?" Elo's mouth worked, but no sound came out. "I thought they were all dead, El. I thought I'd lost everyone. But my sister's alive!" Wickerswitch walked backwards, hands curled and face bright with joy. "I could hardly believe it when that Adventurer told me." Elo bit her lip. "I just don't want you to be disappointed." Wickerswitch stopped. "I'm not naïve, El. It's been decades. I know she'll have changed. I have too. I just can't pass up this chance to see her again. To meet her husband and their children." He pursed his lips. "I thought you'd understand." Elo took a breath, letting her eyes roam the canopy. "I do. Of course I do." She swallowed. "I'm happy for you, really. I'm just… worried." She gave him a half smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's in the job description." Wickerswitch huffed out a laugh and gave her a mock salute. "Roger that, Captain." He turned back to the path and resumed walking. Elo's shoulders tightened, lips clenching, her gaze once again raking the forest before it found Wickerswitch's back. "Wrong job…"

[princephilipplahm]

So proud of the Italianos today! 🇮🇹🇮🇹

[themonkeyinacar]

i'm used to going to planica every year for seven years now and this year it just won't be the same. it's just painful and sad and wrong

[frauzet]

Amici Mortis—Notes From the Afterlife

#1 Traveling Companions

Warning:  Contains spoilers for Anthem's introduction.

I died more times than I remember. I killed more people than anyone should be able to justify. Since history is told by the survivors, people around here still call me a hero. Among the various names they dubbed me, Ice Titansbane remained my personal favorite. The bards up North will sing you a different story, though, one where I play the part of the monster. Cor Petra—heart of stone—they named me, a name as well earned as all the others. My companions called me Ice before I even encountered my first Titan much less bagged one, long before I became a Friend of Death.

Death and I have not always been on speaking terms. Early in life, I started making less sophisticated decisions, though, that lead to us becoming acquainted. I must have been about eight or nine when I jumped from my room’s balcony on the second floor to test my self-made javelin. It worked for a second or two. Death told me I could do better. I woke up a few days later. I never gave up on my dream of flying. However, healing my body took too long for me to be still young enough to start training with Heliost’s Sentinels. Swearing became my favorite pastime besides working on a plan B. My father taught me you have to work hard to achieve your goals. He wouldn’t appreciate the thought this led to me running away at the age of sixteen. With more luck than brains, I managed to reach Antium, survived being robbed without losing anything more valuable than my pride, and ended up as a trainee with Haluk’s band of Freelancers.

Dead wildlife, Scar, and outlaws became the order of the day for the next four years of my life. They didn’t prepare me for the loss of my squad-mates at the Heart of Rage. Worst of all, I survived. Death had rejected me once again and I had problems dealing with it. So did Haluk. Harsh words fell. The inevitable split-up with the few pathetic remains of the band wasn’t long in coming. We all agreed they were better off without me. I drifted for several days before I realized I had been heading back toward Heliost. I had lost my friends, I had lost myself, maybe I could find the family I had left behind. Had I visited Heliost first instead of heading to the village my family lived in I might have been prepared for what awaited me. The Freelancers at the Enclave there would have had answers to the questions I didn’t even know to ask yet.

The graveyard lies in front of the village. My family’s burial wall stands out due to its size. Wreaths of fresh flowers adorned the base proclaiming a recent bereavement. I had exchanged a handful of letters with my brother, so I knew Uncle Petrek had contracted some fatal disease or other. Hence I saw no reason to worry. After all, I had never liked Uncle Petrek. Freelancers don’t care much for social conventions, but we honor our fallen. So I deemed it appropriate to pay Uncle Petrek my last respect before heading over to our house. To avoid squeezing through the gate in my javelin, I took a big step over the fence. This seemed more prudent than risking to crack the tiles through the impact of landing my jav or igniting some dried flowers with its thrusters. Leaving my suit hadn’t even occurred to me. A handful of determined yet careful strides took me to the burial site and to one of the most important moments in my life.

The new cinerary urn glinted in the sunlight. The shadows played tricks on the freshly engraved letters, making them appear in relief. After reading the inscription I blinked and read it again. I opened the helmet and traced the grooves with my fingertips, my javelin translating the sensory information of the material down to its smallest grains. More details than a touch with bare hands could ever provide and still, I had problems to grasp the meaning of the words I read.

Ismara Doran Beloved Daughter and Sister 446 - 466

The sound I made ranged somewhere between coughing and laughing. Freelancer handbook, chapter one: A Freelancer was at the right place at the right time, punctuality was for Sentinels! I wondered how many Freelancers had managed to be late to their own funeral. Was this real? Was I real? The thought to open the urn and see what was inside crossed my mind leaving behind a blank space. The thought returned. This was a game. If I opened the urn and it was empty I was still alive. If it wasn’t then what? Did I even want to be alive? Each of my steps since the Heart of Rage had been weighed down by guilt. I had dragged Haluk from the Heart of Rage without finishing the job, without even trying to avenge my fallen comrades. They had died for nothing. I had abandoned our cause. I had abandoned all of Northern Bastion. Maybe Haluk was right calling me a coward. Maybe I, too, should have died. Maybe I did.

Maybe I did! Ismara Doran died but she did so already four years ago. The beloved daughter and sister did not survive my trip to Antium. Isma reached Antium. The first time I killed a human Isma died together with a piece of my soul. But Ice had already been there to replace her. There was no need to change my name to know the Ice who went into the Heart of Rage had not returned. I realized Death wasn’t a stranger lurking at the end of my path. No, Death walked in the shadow of her sisters Time and Change and I died a little with each of her steps. The choice to continue mourning or to move on was mine. Ice could be whomever I wanted her to be.

I wiped away the last of my tears as I heard someone approach.

“Did you know my sister?” he asked.

Smiling I turned to face him. “Better than most!”

[vierabathwater]

Blame (SFWC)

"You are all wretched failures, unworthy of your positions," sneered Vitiate.

Bestia blinked. "My lord, there was no way--"

"You have a prophet among your peers, and you expect me to believe there was no way you could have anticipated your capture by the Republic?"

Calphayus cleared his throat. "My lord, the future--"

"You will speak when you are spoken to, Calphayus." Vitiate turned back to Bestia. "The next time you all fail, you will pray for death. Mark my words. Go build your fortress, and report to me when it is complete." The Emperor ended the transmission.

Raptus' sneer cut his comrades deep. "We can all learn from this; Calphayus is pathetic."

The normally calm Sith glared at his superior. "As I had wanted to say to our master, the future is constantly moving and changing. If I had seen it, I still could have been wrong. Furthermore, our ship's defenses were not at their best--and we know whose responsibility that is."

Tyrans scowled. "I did what I thought was best, as always. Do you think I was expecting the Jedi to succeed? The plan to travel was Raptus' idea."

Now Raptus was even more furious. "How dare you? I would never--"

"But you did," snapped Bestia.

"At least I didn't reproduce and let my child get taken by the filthy--" His words were cut off, and he was gasping for air, grabbing his throat.

Brontes examined Styrak. He had a huge fist raised in Raptus' direction. The other Masters began to giggle, delighted at Raptus being shut up.

"You will not speak ill of our child," he hissed coldly. He lowered his fist quickly, sending their leader gagging.

Raptus was in a pure rage. "Do not ever--"

"You heard Lord Styrak," Brontes interrupted. "Watch. Your. Mouth."

Raptus stormed off, swearing. There was silence until Tyrans spoke up. "Brontes, Styrak. You said you wished to lure your child out into the open." He produced a datapad and began rereading his research. "Turns out that there's a group of Trandoshan mercenaries who are looking for a hunt, and your long lost little girl has a Trandoshan friend."

Brontes and Styrak listened to his plan.

[shortfictionweeklychallenge]

Ten Years Ago Today

A decade of prompts from Short Fiction Weekly Challenge.

Week of July 3, 2015

Sight: Humans are a visually-oriented species, so sight is one of the easiest senses to evoke in a story and most writers use it automatically.  We describe how a room looks or our character’s physical appearance.  We tell the reader what our character sees.  It is the most basic scene setting tool.  This week’s challenge: make the character’s vision a central part of your story.  Having trouble?  Take it away.  Maybe it’s too dark to see.  Maybe they’re temporarily blinded.  Maybe they’ve always been blind.  Experiment!