The room was dark and lively, with a strong scent of ale.  Shouts flew toward the tavernkeep’s pretty wife.  “Where are you really from, Sarie?”  It was an old game, one they never tired of.

“My mother was a Xemish pirate,” she called across the room while wiping up a spill.  “She was shipwrecked in the southern sea and I was raised among the Synalei.”  Snorts of laughter, hoots, and careless splashes of ale greeted her latest outrageous lie.  “Why do you think I’m so good at telling the weather?” she demanded with exaggerated innocence.

“Don’t believe her for a second, boys.  She came here straight from heaven!”  Her husband seized her by the waist and buried a kiss in the crook of her neck.

She laughed, and put a hand up to his hair.  “You heard the man.  He’s the authority here.”

The results of that were, as she expected, lewd.  She flipped her skirts at them, swept an armful of empty tankards up, and swept off to the kitchen.  She dumped the tankards reflexively into the basin for washing, and then stood, hand resting on the edge, and sagged.

She was married.  What had she been thinking?   She scrubbed at her face in frustration.  It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, a good place to land, to spend a few decades among people who liked her even if they didn’t know her.  Someone who could love a piece of her while she did what she had to.  And she’d been happy, happier than she’d been since the day the city where she’d been born had become a name that could never be spoken.  The one thing that could keep her from staying had never occurred to her.  Their birth rates were so low, and she was so young.  It had never even crossed her mind.

Her hand curved protectively over her abdomen.  He hadn’t noticed yet, but he would soon enough.  And then he’d look for her if she disappeared, and not stop looking.  An errant wife was one thing, but…  She closed her eyes as his voice carried through the doorway, and allowed herself to picture, just for a moment, how he would take her leaving.

She turned away, lifting her chin defiantly against the tears.  He wasn’t what mattered any more, and neither was she.  That game might never find the truth, but once they saw the baby, there would be no question.  That was the only thing that mattered now.  There was no more time, and nothing left but the baby.

She wiped her hands carefully on a cloth, dropped it on the table, and walked out the back door.

This week, I’m taking my first pass at Write On Edge‘s Red Writing Hood challenge. The prompt calls for up to 450 words inspired by the following Robert Frost poem:

The Secret Sits

We dance round in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

This is part of the same series as The Fall and assorted other prompt responses that I should probably link together.  I’ll get on that!  Thanks for reading.

They fled on foot, and all night.  There was no choice.  The baby was too little for anything else, and not for anything would they leave him.  They had left it too late, she realized.  They just hadn’t been able to believe it.  Not until the stories started coming, of burnings, quarterings, people chased to their deaths from horseback.  They were no longer welcome in this new world.

They were going south.  If they were lucky, they might make it across the border before the invaders reached them.  Maybe.  They kept going.  There were no choices left.  Only the hurry.

Since this week Trifecta has given us *gasp* two and a half weeks to come up with a more substantial bit of fiction, I’m trying my hand at 100-word fiction with this week’s Velvet Verbosity challenge.  The prompt: hurrying.  This goes along with The Fall.  Thanks for reading!

“Until dinner.”  Par finally left.  Thank heavens.  There wasn’t enough wine in the city.

“Did he propose to you, or is he saving that for dinner?”  A wickedly inflected baritone caught her ear, and Raicha turned with relief to see Par’s brother Avash.   “You could do better.”  He lifted an eyebrow suggestively.

“You don’t imagine my grandfather would let you anywhere near me, do you?”  Avash combined his brother’s middling social position with youngest-son ineligibility and a scandalous reputation for affairs with married women.

“Grandfathers never seem to approve of me.  Even my own.”  A regretful look that she didn’t believe for a second appeared.

“Well, mine is here,” she laughed.  “Go away before you get me in trouble, Avash.”

He winked and strolled off to the imperial balcony where Camilia and Sahmin were sitting.  He casually dropped into the chair next to Camilia.  Sahmin addressed a friendly comment to him.

Raicha froze.  She could see the corner of Avash’s mouth turned up ever so slightly.  Avash?  She had never caught so much as a whisper.  And joining her this publicly could only mean one thing.  She folded her lips under and firmly bit down on them to control the hysterical bubble of laughter that was welling up.  Her eyes darted around the room.  The Temeru patriarch had stopped with a glass of wine halfway to his lips and was staring toward the balcony with an expression he’d be embarrassed by later.  Raicha quivered.

“My lady.”  A servant bowed.  “Her imperial majesty invites you to join her to view the fireworks.”

“I think my view of the fireworks would be better from here.”  Dahla Faro’s face was furiously red.  Raicha’s great uncle – Camilia’s grandfather – caught her and gave her an amused glance.  Raicha quickly looked away.

“My lady?”

“Yes, by all means.  I would hate to miss them.”  Camilia turned and caught her eye.  Raicha choked, but her shoulders only shook a little as she sauntered off to join them.

This week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge!  33 to 333 words on the third definition of the word  FIREWORKS (noun)

“You know what we should do?”  He looked up from his laptop, face bright with enthusiasm.  “We should take a trip during my mid-semester break.  How about Kyoto?  You’ve always wanted to go to Japan.”

She closed her eyes.  “I won’t make it to April.”  The armchair was soft, but she still ached.  She clutched the armrest to stop the trembling.

“Of course you will.”  His stream of forced cheer continued unabated.  “We can take tours of the gardens.  If you’re feeling well enough, we can even stay at a ryokan.”  He started to pull up pictures.  She stared at the ceiling as a rain of imaginary tatami mats and tea ceremonies fell around her.

“Eric.”  She tried to cut through the flow.  “I’m not going to be able to take a trip in April.”

“Nonsense.  You need to stop being so pessimistic.  You’re going to be fine.  The experimental trial is working.”

It wasn’t.  The doctor had told her as much.  He didn’t want to take away all her hopes, but he wanted to be realistic.  Give her the time to say her goodbyes, put her affairs in order while she still could.  It would be – bad.  She was already feeling it, and it was only going to get worse.  Even if she fought through until April, there would be nothing left of her to sip tea and pose on bridges.

Eric had heard the same words she had, but they had skated off the surface of his mind.   In this, she was alone.  She looked through the open door into the bedroom, where her familiar nightstand stood, comforting with the weight of the bottle of pills she’d hidden at the back of the drawer.

“I won’t be going to Japan, Eric,” she murmured.  He wasn’t listening.  She got up and dropped a kiss on the top of his head.  He asked her a question that she barely registered.  “Whatever you like, dear,” she said before she drifted away.

Welcome to this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge. This week the folks at Trifecta gave us three prompts; here’s 333 words (exactly!) on the Lewis Carroll quote “What I tell you three times is true.” I will note that that’s a classic — Lewis Carrol is not the only person to have noted the truth coming in threes.  Thanks for reading!

Jack dropped down onto the stoop and stared blankly at the street.  Was that it?  The sun shone and a car drove by, just like it was any other day.  The reflected light flashed in his eyes.

“Are you okay, honey?  You look a little blue.”  A light voice came from behind him.

He reared back and gave her a revolted look.  Blue?  Men weren’t blue.  Chicks could be blue.  Men, men were… nobly stoic.  “I’m fine.”  Had he really been supplanted so soon?  He knew it would come in the end, but…

A hand carded through his hair.  “You should really be very proud.”  A mischievous note entered her voice.  “He didn’t just beat you, he owned you.”

Jack slanted his eyes at her grumpily.  That, regrettably, was true.  He winced as an ungodly honking noise started coming from the house.  Apparently the new champion had coopted his sister’s clarinet for his victory parade.

She noticed his wince.  “It’s not like you aren’t just as bad when you win.”

“Claire?”

“Yes?”

“Stop helping.”

She laughed, ruffled his hair, and went back to the door.  “Join us when you’re ready.  The Lord Champion has decreed that we’re having broccoli and cheese with dinner.”

He slumped, and a sigh escaped him.  “I hate broccoli and cheese.”  Then he levered himself up, nobly assumed a congratulatory expression, and went back in to face the new ten-year-old Scrabble champ.

Welcome to this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge. This week calls for 33 to 333 words using the third definition of the word BLUE (adjective):

1 : of the color blue
2 a : bluish b : discolored by or as if by bruising
c : bluish gray
3 a : low in spirits : melancholy
b : marked by low spirits : depressing

Thanks for reading!

After dinner, when the adults were sitting by the fire, his grandfather with his feet up and his mother with Cala in her lap, Cy slipped out into the alley behind the house.  His father’s saber gleamed in his hand, the only thing that seemed to make sense any more.  He raised in front of him, and started the first of the sword drills his father had taught him.

His aching back started to loosen.  Cy wasn’t sure he’d had a single good day in the last ten months, but today had been worse than most.  He had tripped and put his hand through a piece of silk still on the loom, and his grandfather, normally restrained about Cy’s shortcomings as a weaver, had blown up.  His mother had said she could salvage it.  Cy knew better than to believe her.  His clumsiness had cost them probably two weeks’ work in materials.

He was probably the world’s worst weaver.  He was the only one of them beside his mother who was big enough to work the loom, but the work he did made his grandfather raise his eyebrows and shuffle it into the back cabinet.  They were accumulating a disturbing number of second-best sheets and rug rags.  Even his spinning was a total loss.  Brevar was better at it than he was, and Brev was only seven.  Cala would probably be better at it as soon as she started walking.

He heard the door open, and a square of light fell at his feet.  He ignored it, and led the saber into the next exercise.  An irritated huff came from behind him, then a soft voice.  “Let him be, father.”  An inarticulate grumble followed, then his audience withdrew and the light disappeared.

The saber cut cleanly through the night air.  Up.  Across.  Spin, and down.  In his mind, the pattern stood out like a lacework of light, and for once, things were simple.

Welcome to this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge. This week calls for 33 to 333 words on the third definition of the word
ALLEY (noun):

1: a garden or park walk bordered by trees or bushes
2a (1) : a grassed enclosure for bowling or skittles

  c : an area in a baseball outfield between two outfielders when they are in normal positions
3: a narrow street; especially : a thoroughfare through the middle of a block giving access to the rear of lots or buildings

This one follows on last week’s response.  Thanks for reading!

Cy stared down at the gleaming saber. It lay unwinking on the rough kitchen table with the handful of other possessions that were all that had come back. A ring, a pair of daggers, a heavy purse of coins that would be the last payment from the company. That was all.

He reached out to touch it, running his fingers along the watered blade. His father had let him hold it, had even let him practice with it once to celebrate his twelfth birthday. It had always been there at his father’s side, as inseparable from him as his arm.

An age-spotted hand knocked his hand away from it. “No more of that, boy.” His grandfather’s face was like a thunderstorm. “That’ll lead you nowhere but the same place it took your father. You’re a weaver now.”

Cy hardly saw him. All he could see was the saber, slowly starting to blur. A familiar smell surrounded him, and he felt hands on his shoulders. His mother turned him to face her. Her hair was a mess and her hazel eyes were reddened, but her voice was reassuring. “It’s all right, sweetheart.” She reached up to touch his face. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to go live with your grandfather now. I’m going to need you to help me take care of your brother and your sisters. Can you help me do that?”

Cy rubbed roughly at his eyes, and nodded. His mother smiled. “I know you can. You’re going to do just fine. Now why don’t you come help me get the girls packed up.” She turned away from the table.  The new man of the house squared his shoulders and followed.

This week’s prompt from Trifecta Writing Challenge asks for 33 to 333 words on the third definition of the word NEW (adjective):

1: having recently come into existence

2 a (1) : having been seen, used, or known for a short time (2) : unfamiliar
b : being other than the former or old

3: having been in a relationship or condition but a short time

Thanks for reading!

It wasn’t the first time she’d said the wrong thing on an internet date.  She stared glumly into the remains of her gin fizz.  The joke, okay, but did she have to say that thing about the walrus?

A little pure silliness while I’m wrestling with computer problems today, in response to Trifecta Writing Challenge’s weekend prompt, which called for 33 words to follow the beginning “It wasn’t the first time.” Ever have things come out of your mouth before you thought about them? Yeah, me too.

Stars shine down on stone.  Though the sun is gone, the air still crackles with summer, a scorching breeze ruffling the grasses.  A faint, sweet scent of blossom rides the wind, carried from the sea of tala bells that dance among the brambles, luminously blue in the moonlight.  It is as all of the plains, but for the stones and the man.

The stones are everywhere, large and small.   Some are taller than a man, and curiously squared, some no more than pebbles.  The grass and the brambles and the flowers engulf them.  The centuries passed since the city fell and was left to decay have long since blown away the mortar and the bones.

A single figure appears, picking his way among the stones.  From a certain angle, he shimmers curiously in the moonlight, the sort of trick that makes men rub their eyes and shake their heads.  A careful observer might notice that where he has passed, the grass remains unbent, unbroken, but there is no one, and so the oddity goes unremarked.

His gaze is inquisitive but oddly unmoved, his face clear and still as he walks through this graveyard.  He touches a stone here, another there. At length, he comes to the center of the ruin, and looks around him.  The devastation is complete, but there is life still, hidden among the rocks.   He turns and looks to the northeast, where the conquerors hide from the summer heat.  He looks to the east, where their god sleeps until dawn.  Finally, he looks to the north, where a new city has grown.  For a moment, his eyes, iris purple, seem to glow.

And then — and then he begins to laugh.  His laughter rings off the stones and whirls out into the night in a ribbon of light.  He bends and touches the center stone, a benison.  Still laughing, he gives a mocking salute toward the east before he vanishes, leaving nothing but a glow and a curious sense of hope.

Welcome to this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge! This week asked for 33 to 333 words on the third definition of DECAY (intransitive verb):

1: to decline from a sound or prosperous condition
2: to decrease usually gradually in size, quantity, activity, or force
3: to fall into ruin

I’d like to pretend that it’s 333 words exactly because I’m just that good, but really it’s because I cut words until it got there. This is something of a sequel to The Fall. Thanks for reading!

If you saw her on the street, you’d think she was the farthest thing from wild.  She was subdued, self-contained, oddly passionless.  She rode the bus, every day the same, scuffed penny loafers tucked neatly under her, limp white button shirt hanging slightly askew.  Her gaze drifted vaguely over the bustling commuters; did she even see them around her?

Perhaps not.  It was behind her eyes that the tempest lay.  The skies she saw were endless, and under them, fires burned.  Civilizations fell.  Dragons flew.  It was in the untrackable places her heart went that she really lived, unfettered and free.

This week’s prompt from Trifecta Writing Challenge asks for 33 to 333 words using the third definition of the word WILD (adj):

3: a (1): not subject to restraint or regulation : uncontrolled; also : unruly
(2) : emotionally overcome; also : passionately eager or enthusiastic

Thanks for reading!