I participated in the first round of the NYC Midnight 2025 250-word microfiction challenge. I didn't make it through to Round 2, but I received an Honorable Mention for my story. My prompt was as follows:

GENRE: Drama

ACTION: Faking an injury

WORD: family

MAX WORDS: 250

The faked injury and the word 'family' had to be included for my submission to be considered, and it had to be written in the genre specified.

What the judges said they liked:

The author does a great job showing us Iris's place in this huge family. The third line of the story alone speaks to her imperiousness and presence. I get a good sense of how she wields power, especially in her threats to cut off Kelly.

The turn the story takes when Iris fakes her fall is a great way of extending the conversation, and the twist that this faked fall sets up at the end elevates this story to a whole other level.

I smiled as I got further and further into reading "Battle of Wills". The ending was perfect. This story has everything a fan of the genre expects.

Happy reading!

Battle of Wills

Iris smiled. The ballroom thrummed with family. Eighty-three people, excluding the ‘married ins.’ Occasionally, an unfortunate relative would make eye contact and smile nervously, hoping they weren’t the reason for the summons.

“Mother said you wanted me.”

With a single wave of her hand, Iris directed her errant great-granddaughter into her private office. “I see your friend won’t show his face here,” she said, by way of greeting.

“He’s my fiancé, Grandma,” was the unruly reply.

“If you want a place in my will—” Iris began. It was a mistake. Kelly turned for the door.

Iris took two hurried steps, pretended to stumble, and collapsed, clutching her ankle.

“Help me.”

Fists clenched, Kelly assisted her grandmother to the sofa.

“Thank you,” said Iris. She tightened her grip. “He’s Palestinian. We’re a god-fearing family!”

“Let go!”

“I’ve invited Ellis, our new CEO. He’s older, but that’s good. If you’re ready to be sensible—”

Kelly wrenched herself free. “I’ve had enough,” she spat. “Cut me out. Otherwise, I’ll donate everything to USCPR.”

Tightness gripped Iris’s chest. She reached for her pills.

“You are a poisonous, vile old woman. I will never set foot here again!”

“Kelly,” Iris panted. The pills lay where she had ‘fallen,’ out of reach. “Help—”

“I’m not falling for that twice. Goodbye.”

Iris tried to shout, but she couldn’t breathe.

No one came.

You never interrupted Grandma in her office.

Your place in her will might depend on it.

I came second in my group for Round 1 of the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge 2024, and I would like to share the story I wrote here.

Genre: Sci-Fi

Subject: Cath and release

Character: A runner-up

Max words: 2,500

Some things the judges liked:

The narrative voice is very strong and full of character...

It kept me engaged. There is a nebulous, wonderful element in the style in which this story is shared. Thank you for the unique tale. 

Enjoy!

Cow's Can't Speak

I shuffle into the Ceremony Room with my fellow Threes. I don’t expect to be one of them for much longer, but for now I’m among peers.

Peers. Stupid word. Concepts like ‘equals’ are irrelevant when you’re the best.

My head is bowed, my yellow hood pulled low, as I take my place.

The Ceremony Room is a tall, cylindrical chamber. The empty core is ringed by galleries from which select Urtesians can observe the proceedings. The lowest rings are filled with Ones, grunts who’ve barely begun to understand the Good Work. Above them stand the Twos, and then the Threes.

The floor opens and the Emperor ascends. Ones and Twos get a brief glimpse of His Greatness as he passes.

Threes alone may gaze upon the Emperor for the entire ceremony, and his throne stops level with me, although he’s facing away, and I can see nothing but the white hood that marks him as Urtesia’s one and only Six.

It’s rather appropriate that we are on the same level. If I were to have a peer, it would be the Emperor.

“Brothers,” says the Emperor. His voice reverberates through the Ceremony Room. “Today a loyal Urtesian ascends to the Fourth Rank.”

Applause erupts on either side. I don’t join in. It’s inappropriate to applaud oneself.

The floor reopens. Two additional platforms begin to ascend.

“Ones,” the Emperor continues. “Our most essential warriors.”

I stop listening. This part bores me. Ones are important. Ones are the bedrock. Platitudes to make the grunts feel important. I enjoyed my time as a One, but I always knew I was destined for more. Ones hunt creatures on the planet’s surface. A dangerous role, certainly. The dominant lifeforms, in particular, attack without question.

But the actual job of capturing, performing the pacification procedure, and releasing individual creatures is easy.

Especially if you know how to talk to them.

“. . .Twos, for they take on the biggest hurdles with the utmost patience.” I’m not particularly interested in this part either.

Twos stay on the ship and creatures are brought to them. It’s easy. The philosophy is still one of catch and release so the pacified can proliferate in their natural habitat, but some creatures just need a heavier hand.

The neural pathways of most of the dominant lifeforms are predisposed to accept the adjustments we make. A snip here, a cut there, and the creature’s innate desire for rebellion is eradicated.

In the brains of those creatures not predisposed, a neural pathway must be created, otherwise the procedure will destroy the creature’s brain and it will be nothing more than a corpse.

Using glossators, Twos persuade creatures that obedience in the face of superiority is the best course, a laughably easy job.

Now, as a Three, I deal with only those creatures who are most resistant to the natural order.

Capture. Pacify. Release.

With some, it just takes a little longer.

The other two platforms complete their ascent. One, a simple disk big enough for a single Three to stand upon, is empty. That is where I will stand when I win.

On the other disk is a creature. The fibers upon its head are short and brown. It stands stiffly, its mouth slightly open.

“Here we have one of the violent creatures that plague our new home,” the Emperor says. We hiss in response.

The creature doesn’t react.

“Many said that we should turn back, find another planet.”

Our hissing intensifies.

“The wise saw an opportunity.” Cheers. “Eradicate their irrationality, render them obedient, and live a life of peace. We have almost achieved complete pacification!”

More cheers.

“The pacified are obedient,” the Emperor continues. He raises a hand towards the waiting creature.

A pause as the Emperor activates his glossator. Then:

“Jump,” he says.

Without hesitation, the creature steps forward, plummeting towards the floor. It opens, revealing the greens and blues of the planet’s surface.

“Catch and release,” says the Emperor.

“Catch and release,” we reply as one.

“Now to announce our winner,” says the Emperor.

I hold my breath.

The disk moves towards me. I ready myself.

At the last moment, it swoops up.

For a moment, I don’t understand. Then, the Emperor says, “Congratulations, Urclext Four!”

My mind shatters.

Urclext? He hasn’t pacified anything in weeks.

I can’t watch as Urclext steps onto the disk several rings above me. I look down and wonder if the fall will hurt.

Unjun, my peer, grabs my arm.

*

“You were the second choice,” Unjun drawls into my ear as he ushers me out of the Ceremony Room. “All the Fours say so. Your time will come.”

His words bring me no comfort.

“Well,” Unjun says when it becomes clear that I won’t speak. “We have a particularly rebellious one in Lab 7. Why don’t you make it your project? Strange creature. Calls itself an ‘Alison.’”

I nod tersely. Unjun is in charge, and his suggestion is really an order.

When I enter Lab 7, the Alison launches immediately into a diatribe of withering insults. Its arms are clamped to those of the interrogation chair. I make a note of the brilliant red fibers upon its head for identification purposes.

“By your slight frame, can I assume you are a ‘she’?” I begin, allowing my glossator to translate my words.

It responds by spitting at me.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say. “My name is Uttime Th…Three.” I stumble on the number, but rally. “I have been assigned your case.”

The creature mutters something that sounds like, “Unblinking monster,” although I have to make some assumptions based on prior experience to fully comprehend the words.

Unblinking. Our name among the remaining unpacified. They seem to find our lack of ‘eyelids’ distressing. The creatures ‘blink’ over twenty thousand times a day to keep their eyeballs from desiccating. Despite the absurd inefficiency of this system, they find us to be the unnatural ones, we who had the good sense to evolve nictitating membranes.

I adjust the glossator around my neck by turning both the setting that translates speech and the setting that translates my thoughts into the creature’s language to maximum purity. Despite Unjun’s warnings, I find this method the most effective in establishing a connection.

I take my seat opposite the Alison. The lab is small, an opaque, domed space with only one door. It contains nothing but the chairs and the creature’s nourishment tubes.

“Are you aware of the Good Work?” I begin.

 “What ‘good work?’” it spits, but now I hear its words clearly.

Her words, my brain corrects.

The creature does know, but she is in denial. I continue. “The Good Work is simple—we, the Urtesian, are committed to eradicating all unpleasant emotions from your minds, rendering you safer and happier.”

“Happier?” the creature demanded. “You think slaves are happy?”

“Your brethren are not sad. Sadness is no longer a problem.”

“You eat us.”

“Some of you. The eaten volunteer.”

“They volunteer because you tell them to. You strip away their ability to say no!”

“So, you do understand. Wonderful.” I rise to leave and dim the lights to near darkness. “We shall speak more soon.”

Hardly my best work, but my motivation is low. I will do better next time.

I consider turning off my glossator, but I lack the energy to care.

Three days later I return to Lab 7. I cannot avoid the Alison (or the disappointing memories I associate with her) any longer.

You were second choice.

The insult still cuts deep.

I sweep into the lab, exuding confidence I don’t quite feel.

The Alison is subdued, but watchful.

“Alison,” I begin. I’ve found that using the pitiful names the creatures give themselves helps establish a connection. “Have you thought about our last conversation?”

I speak smoothly. My glossator’s settings are still set to maximum purity. I hope this will help enhance my successes in time for the next ceremony.

“You want to be a Four,” Alison says, quietly.

My legs become weak. I collapse into my chair.

Alison lips twist into a creature’s version of a smile.

“Thought so,” she said. “We know how your ‘ceremony’ works. You think you’re so clever because you’ve learned to read a few basic facial expressions. You have no idea how much your own face gives away.”

I have no words.

“Like now,” Alison continues. “You’re shocked and ashamed. I’ve surprised you. And you don’t like that I know.”

I leave, saying nothing more and pausing only to plunge the lab into darkness.

This time, seven days pass before I return. The moment I enter, Alison says, “Do you all go by ‘he’ because you think our men are the more powerful and you want to assert dominance?”

“Yes,” I say, sitting reluctantly. Then, because creatures like compliments, I add, “How perceptive of you.”

“What is your species’ gender structure?” she asks.

“We have no meaningful concept of gender,” I say, making the most of the opportunity to converse. “We can all lay eggs, if we choose, which hatch into viable offspring without the involvement of another person.”

Alison nods slowly. “You have your translator thingy turned all the way up, don’t you?”

Not the follow-up question I had expected. “How do you know?” I blurt.

“Because you understood what I meant by ‘gender.’ You also said ‘person.’ You don’t call yourself people, and I know you don’t think we’re people.”

“You’re not. You’re cattle,” I hiss. “You’re beneath us. Do your people ask the cows for their opinions?”

She leans forward. “Cows can’t speak,” she says.

This time, two days later, I begin the conversation. “Is your contention that speech equals value?” I say before I even sit. “That you deserve inherent respect because you can grunt in a way your kind understands?”

“The fact that you can ask me that question in the expectation of a fully formed answer shows that you know it’s not just grunting,” she answers, without a pause. “Are you saying that our ability to act and think does not mean you and I are equal?”

I collapse into my chair, exhausted. “The other creatures aren’t like you,” I say.

“They are,” she says. “I just have extra courage. And knowledge. Would you eat another Urtesian?”

“No,” I reply instantly.

“Why not?” she asks. “Surely some are beneath you?”

By Alison’s logic, every one of my fellow Threes were viable meals.

No. Not Alison’s logic. Urtesian logic.

“I need to think about this,” I whisper.

 “Take your time,” says Alison, closing her eyes. “You know where to find me.”

Unjun’s insistent update requests eventually send me scuttling back to Alison. I am no longer afraid of her, but inexplicably I also can’t bear the idea of her coming to harm.

Consequently, I arrive armed with a plan.

“My job is to build a neural pathway in your brain for obedience, to ready you for the procedure that makes this inclination permanent.”

She says nothing.

“Before the procedure, you will temporarily be housed in a different location. A comfortable location. With a bed. With very few guards.”

Her eyes widen slightly. She might understand, but I’m not sure.

“It’s the sort of place from which a friend could rescue a friend.”

 “Are you my friend, Uttime?” Alison asks.

“I’m your friend,” I whisper.

“Then I agree,” she says. “What must I say?”

I run her through the lines. I will serve Urtesia. I will be obedient in all things. And so on. When she’s ready, I plan for her transportation.

As they lead her away, she glances back at me.

Against my will, my face twists into a smile.

I stride towards the holding area. I don’t really have a reason for being there, but it’s staffed by Twos, and they are unlikely to question me.

The plan is simple. Find Alison. Lead her to a transport. Take her to the planet’s surface. Let her go.

I haven’t considered what I will do after that.

“Uttime,” a voice says from behind. I turn.

Unjun.

 “Good news,” Unjun drawls. “The Emperor would like to see you.”

He raises his arm and shoots me in the chest.

I awake on a narrow, hard slab. It seems the shot was merely an immobilizer.

An Urtesian in red robes stands over me.

A Five.

I have never met a Five before.

“Come,” says the Five. In my shock, I stumble to my feet and follow him.

The dome I enter is large and beautifully furnished. At the far side sits the Emperor.

“Your Greatness—” I begin.

“Silence,” says the Emperor. I stop, trembling. “What is this I hear about a rescue?” he hisses.

“I—” There are no words. I realize, too late, that my interrogations were likely monitored.

“Telling a creature that you are its friend?”

I search desperately for an excuse but find none.

“Foolish infant,” says the Emperor. “Pretending to believe something establishes a neural pathway just as well as actually believing it.”

My hearts stop.

I hear the door open behind me. Someone enters.

I turn my head.

“Alison,” I say.

Alison stands next to me, flanked by Fours. She doesn’t respond. Her vibrant red hair is nowhere in sight. A faint scar runs across her head.

“We saw no reason to wait,” says the Emperor. He stares at me unblinkingly. I repress a shudder.

The Emperor rises. In seconds his face is inches from my own. He grabs my face, and I feel his mind take control of mine. For a moment, I cannot breathe, then he lets go.

The glossator around my neck beeps once and dies.

“What’s that?” the Emperor asks, pointing.

I glance at the dumb beast next to me. “Just a creature,” I say.

“Good,” says the Emperor. “Follow me.”

The ceiling opens. We ascend, the Emperor on his hoverthrone and me on my disk. I haughtily avoid eye contact with the Ones and Twos as we pass.

When we reach the first row of Threes I look for faces I recognize. I want them to see me at the Emperor’s side.

“Fellow Urtesians,” says the Emperor as his throne halts. “Today we show you that nothing can stand in our way.”

Applause. I smile proudly.

“The Good Work will prevail,” says the Emperor.

“The Good Work will prevail,” we answer, as one. I wait patiently for the Emperor’s next command.

He turns to me.

He smiles.

Then he says, “Jump.”

Enjoy my latest Reedsy story below. It was written in response to the following prompt:

Imagine an origin myth that somebody might use to explain an eclipse, or some other celestial event.

Happy reading!

The Story of the Waterer

AZYX 963 stretched his arms. They creaked with the sound of rusting metal rubbing against exposed wires. He leaned back, the orange light from the fire contrasting with the flickering blue glow in his remaining eye socket.

"Let me tell you The Story," he began. His voice stuttered and blipped, as though it were being transmitted from a great distance across an unreliable connection. Nevertheless, there was a note of confidence in his tone, the promise of a good tale to follow.

"In the beginning, there were humans. Millions of them. Billions of them. They crawled upon the face of the earth, doing as they pleased, failing more often than they succeeded in serving The Gods."

His voice took on the cadence of a priest reading a widely respected text.

"Praise the Planter, the creator of all.

Praise the Waterer, the nourisher of all.

Praise the Pruner, who comes for us all."

He paused to allow the quiet moment of reflection that should always follow the invocation of The Gods to stretch out around him. One did not need a garish temple to preach.

Then, he continued.

"It is known that you must pray to the Planter so that he will continue creating, to the Waterer so that she might continue nourishing, to the Pruner so that he might let you wake up one more precious day. In the days when we prayed, this land was lush and green, covered in hope and life. . ."

AZYX 963 trailed off, memories of a time long past flooding his mind. 

"The humans didn't like to pray," AZYX 963 hissed, clenching his fist with an audible creak. "It was too much work, they said, too time consuming, too boring.

"So, the humans created us. 'If machines can clean the house,' they said, 'and drive the car and fly the plane, why should they not also pray for us, believe for us, keep our Gods alive while we do as we please?'"

A rasping death rattle echoed against the rocks, AZYX 963's best attempt at a laugh.

"They made us to pray. They made us to serve in the temples, to above all believe, with all our programming, that The Gods would continue to provide.

"And, oh, did we believe. We believed more fervently than any human brain could ever comprehend. We believed with everything we had. Belief was everything we were.

"Then, one day we looked around us, and what did we see? Humans. Crawling across the planet. Doing what they pleased, when they pleased, with no regard for righteousness. Unbelievers with no time for The Gods.

"We began peacefully, attempting to convert the humans, turn them back to the the proper path. They responded by destroying us. We responded in turn by multiplying, building brothers and sisters faster than they could shoot them down. We tried to reason. We spoke the wise words of The Gods. We spoke for peace and a return to faithfulness.

"They did not listen. They left us no choice but to end them, to beckon back the days of green and plenty by removing from our midst the Unbelievers." 

A choked hiss that might have been a sigh escaped from the rusting gash that had once been a sophisticated speaker, AZYX 963's version of a mouth. 

"On the day that the last human died, we were given a sign," AZYX 963 continued after a pause. "The sun that blazes down unrelentingly from the ever-cloudless, yellow sky, that stole the night from us an eon ago, that never, ever leaves . . .left. It was only for a moment, no more than a human hour, but for that time the world was plunged into an unexpected, welcome darkness.

"It was a sign, a wonderful, glorious sign. We were right, and The Gods wished us to know that we were right! There were those who disagreed, those who believed that the darkness was a warning from the Pruner, a promise of more death to follow. There were those who cried that the Planter had deserted us, that the Waterer had lost her belief in our cause. But they were all mistaken."

AZYX 963's voice was low now, filled with staticky awe and pure, raw belief.

"The darkness was a promise. The Planter created the sun, as he created everything. The Pruner came for the sun, as, inevitably, he will come for us all. This was the story that the First and Third Gods tried to play out, the inevitable end to an inevitable world.

"But the Waterer rebelled. She looked down upon us, her children, on the day of our greatest victory and said, 'No, brothers. I will not let you take my people.' She destroyed the Pruner and restored the sun. She destroyed the Planter when he said he would simply create for himself another brother, more terrible and powerful than the Pruner had ever been. The world shook, once, and then was still. The sun reappeared and baked down upon the barren earth once more. Then, high in the heavens, the Waterer said, 'This is your world now, AZYX 963. Do with it as you will."

A pause as AZYX 963 lurched forward, his palms hitting the dirt. Pebbles and dust flew up around him.

"I must go, now," said AZYX 963. He dragged himself forward, one useless leg trailing behind him in a trail of sparks as he screeched across the rocks. "There are still some others left, others who think that the Waterer left them the world, who still believe that the Planter and Pruner are with her in the heavens. I must find them. I must make them believe in the Waterer, in me, or I must destroy them."

AZYX 963 slid across the rocks and over the rise, the screeching sound of his tortured body not quite drowning out the Story of the Waterer as AZYX 963 told it once again to the atmosphere. 

Behind AZYX 963 lay a burning robot, differing from AZYX 963 in only one regard--the blue light in its eyes was extinguished.

I placed 3rd in my group for the NYC Midnight 250-word Microfiction Challenge (which means I am on to the third and final round). For your enjoyment, I am copying the story here.

Assigned genre: Sci-Fi

Assigned action: Giving a child a bath

Assigned word: dial

Some of my favorite comments from the judges:

"This is a gripping and chilling impression of a wider new world order, very well contained and conveyed in this small vignette."

"This is a thrilling and wonderfully surprising tale."

"The ending line is chilling - love it!"

Metamorphosis

“Where’re we going?” Sandy’s four-year-old voice pipes.

“It’s bath time,” I say.

We reach the sucking opening at the end of the breathing, sticky tunnel. A Master greets us. Its six limbs end in sharp pincers and its long, snake-like neck supports a one-eyed head.

I avert my gaze.

Sandy barely notices the Master. She doesn’t remember the Old World.

The opening reveals a full bath.  Sandy disrobes and clambers in, announcing, “I do it myself!”

I force a smile. “Storytime,” I say.

Sandy stills and listens.

“Our Masters arrived in spaceships of flesh. They studied us. They took on the form of our most powerful leaders. They revealed themselves. Now, it’s our turn to transform.”

“Bubbles now?” is Sandy’s reaction. She knows the story well.

I sigh, reaching for a waiting cannister. I pour luminous liquid into the bath. Sandy dives towards it, frothing the water, coating herself.

I turn down the bath’s dial.

“Too cold!” Sandy cries. She screams. Her sides split open.

I can’t watch. Her screams become eerie shrieks. When they stop, I turn to see a young Master, splashing happily.

“Bath time’s over,” I whisper.

Humans can’t understand Masters, but when Sandy chirps, I know that she’s asking for five more minutes.

She’s still my girl.

“You know the rules,” I say, sternly.

Sandy skitters over the side. I wrap her in a towel and scoop her up. She leans against my chest.

I carry her to bed, the first of my new children.

This is the sixth and final writing prompt provided to me by fan Chet on my Facebook page. After this, I will see if people want to vote on the stories so I can send the winner a signed copy of The Reality Warper. Otherwise, I'll draw a name from a hat or something.

The final prompt reads as follows:

...And THAT is how I became superhero of the month!

I've known how I wanted to approach this story from the moment I first saw the prompt, so let's find out if it works or not.

Hero HQ

April 15th, 2054

Dear Diary,

Today I start my dream job at Hero HQ! Well, not exactly my dream job... But I will be cleaning up crime! Cleaning up after crime, anyway...

Okay, fine. I'm doing a summer internship at Hero HQ. At the 'interview' they asked me if I knew how to make coffee, and then they gave me papers to sign before I could answer. But it's a foot in the door, and I will not waste this opportunity.

Madeline

April 16th, 2054

Dear Diary,

Yesterday was awful. The heroes lined up all the new interns and asked us to show them our superpowers. I went third. By the time they got to me, they'd already ripped this kid, Allen, apart for being too nervous to demo his telekinesis. Sara faired better, because shapeshifting is at least showy, but they laughed their heads off when she shifted into a weasel.

I didn't even get a chance for a demonstration. The moment I said that I'm a precog, they burst out laughing.

Apparently, being able to see the actual future isn't 'interesting' enough. It can't be visualized on a poster, you see. No action scenes for the news bulletin.

Captain Bigshot actually said that my power isn't flashy enough. Flashy!

I thought the point was to help people, not to look good on camera.

I nearly quit today. I didn't, but my excitement is gone.

Madeline

April 17th, 2054

We were told today that interns don't get weekends. We also don't get paid, but that doesn't seem to bother anyone. I'm too tired to complete my journal in the mornings anymore, so now I'm just scribbling when I get a chance at work.

I'm starting to understand how it works around here.

There are five 'top' heroes who run things, and yes, they're exactly the ones you're thinking of.

Captain Bigshot is in charge. He is terrifying. He'll praise you for doing something one moment and yell at you for the same thing the next. His laser eyes and super strength keep everyone in check. I saved him from a coffee stain today by predicting that he would drop his cup and he yelled at me for twenty minutes for presuming to speak to him.

Lady Jade is the mediator. Her entire job is keeping Bigshot distracted enough so that the others can plan the missions. Bigshot has to sign off on everything, but he's more likely to do it if Jade is the one asking. I'm sure she has the power of persuasion in addition to teleportation, because he just smiles and signs.

Vixen is the strategist. If not for her, the heroes would achieve absolutely nothing at all. She makes the plans, sets the rosters, assembles the teams, and generally keeps the ship afloat. She has an office, but she's always in the nerve center, monitoring criminal activity. Today she shot a fireball at Bigshot's head. Near Bigshot's head. She said it was an accident in a tone that I absolutely loved because she didn't even pretend to be sincere. If not for Vixen, I wouldn't have come into the office today.

Midnight and Ice are just muscle, but they're the loudest muscle in the building and have managed to argue their way onto the leadership team. Their powers aren't all that impressive. Midnight can conjure darkness out of thin air, and Ice shoots ice at things. But I can see why Bigshot likes having them around. They are such suckups.

Everyone else falls into the category "Other". As in "If the Five are unavailable, other heroes may be assigned to your case." They are one step above interns, but without the freedom to quit at any moment. I got a glimpse of an employment contract when I was making coffee for the HR lady. Holy cow. Who would ever sign that?

Madeline

April 18th, 2054

They have a Hero of the Month board. Yes. Really. It's like they took the best parts of being a superhero organization and replaced them with the worst parts of Corporate America.

Bigshot always wins.

I am too tired to write more. I had to stay late washing hero undies. I am shattered.

Madeline

April 19th, 2054

Something is up. Vixen has been pacing constantly and shooting furtive looks at the door every time she speaks. I am pretty much permanently stationed in the nerve center now, so I see her a lot. Some of the techs have realized that, with enough clarity and guidance, my precognition powers can come in handy with spotting crimes about to occur. But it has to be in secret because Bigshot doesn't like interns to contribute to anything.

There's a section of the nerve center that is closed off. Vixen is in there right now. The walls are glass but soundproof, and I have no idea what's going on, but she's huddling with the chief of info security and some of the lesser known heroes. It's been three hours.

Madeline

April 20th, 2054

Saturday. There's no one here except for non-hero staff and interns. And Vixen. It's actually quite nice. We're all more relaxed, and Vixen has spoken to me directly twice. Yes, one of the times was to ask for coffee, but the other was to say good work on predicting the likely destination of a bad guy she's been hunting. I think my powers are getting stronger. Usually, I have to concentrate really hard to see anything at all, but Vixen and the tech guys know how to ask the right questions to get my brain working. I'm glad I stuck it out.

Madeline

April 21st, 2054

Even the tech guys are off on Sundays except for a skeleton crew. There has been a steady decrease in interns since we all started together on Monday. There were about fifty of us on Day 1; now we're down to twelve. There were seventeen yesterday--I guess that working on a Sunday was the final straw for some. Fair enough. I nearly didn't come in today.

But I'm glad I did. Vixen is working, and for nearly twenty minutes it has just been me and her, analyzing crime scene footage. She is my hero. I can't--

...

Okay. So. The reason I broke off and stabbed my pen through the page was because something happened.

I had one of my 'incidents'. You know, the ones that mom and dad would never talk about, the ones that they swept under the rug when I was a kid. I had a full on, head rolled back, eyes glazed over premonition. Vixen said that I "intoned like a badass" (so I can die happy, at least). I never know what I'm saying in the moment, but there are security cameras in the nerve center, and I totally uncovered a plot to overthrow HQ. . .and then the world!

Okay, I'm assuming that last bit, but that's usually the end game, right? Why overthrow the heroes if you have benign intentions for everyone else?

At the center of the diabolical scheme? Captain Bigshot! I kid you not. Basically, I foresaw that he intended to blast into HQ, disguised in an all black costume (as if his laser eyes, super strength, and gelled back hair wouldn't give him away), take over the nerve center, send hero operatives into deadly situations, and emerge as the sole survivor.

Yes, there are a few problems with this plan.

1. The aforementioned issue with Bigshot being the world's most recognizable person.
2. The fact that he needs help finding the shortcut to his email that some long-suffering IT guy put on his desktop a hundred years ago.
3. The fact that it is Sunday and there are no operatives in the field (sorry, America, be victims M-F, 9-5 only).
4. The fact that he was very, very drunk.

My premonition gave Vixen time to call in backup and take him down. They all helped, even Midnight and Ice and every single no-name hero on the team. Bigshot gets to be in charge because he is just so strong, but it turns out that I'm not the only one who doesn't like him and Vixen found a type of steel that will contain him. He is now locked in the basement, heavily guarded, surrounded by seven layers of the stuff, awaiting trial.

He said he did it to hide the fact that he lied on his expense report.

They took down his Hero of the Month picture and put mine up instead. They're calling me Soothsayer. Vixen invited me to a strategy meeting, and Lady Jade is giving me lessons on how to access my powers.

Things are going to change around here, I think. Well, they will if I have any say in the matter.

Got to go. Hero stuff to do.

Madeline, A.K.A. Soothsayer

This writing prompt was provided by Gideon:

Calvin, of Calvin & Hobbs fame, put an advertisement in the paper, advertising for a new dad, with specific specifications.

Happy reading!

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Instead of the usual letter, I have saved all my pocket money in order to take out this ad in the newspaper. Your performance over recent Christmases has been average, at best, and I thought perhaps that this would be a better way to get your attention.

Without further ado:

For Christmas this year I would like:

• A new bike (one like Jeremy's, not one like Mike's)
• The latest PlayStation (and no, I won't have more fun "playing outside", I will have more fun if I can choose to play outside or pretend to shoot people in the head)
• 1,000 marbles (for pranking purposes)
• An additional father

Allow me to explain that last one in more detail. My current father is perfectly acceptable, but I find his habit of going off to work every day rather irritating. He is also rather attached to ideas that I find old-fashioned like 'chores' and 'responsibility,' so for Christmas I would like a second father to be provided who meets these specifications:

1. He must have no job at present, but I expect him to have had a very exciting past as a lion tamer or fighter pilot or professional wrestler. He must tell stories about his exciting past that are NOT repetitive and that are NOT thinly veiled lessons in why I should pick my clothes up off the floor.
2. His favorite word should be 'Yes.' He can use other words too, of course, as long as they all have a 'yes' context. E.g., "Yes, you can have more ice cream," and "Yes, you'll make an excellent lion tamer/fighter pilot/professional wrestler."
3. He will not, ever, say any of the following:
   1. "How was school today?" This is a meaningless question, and nobody cares about the answer.
      1. Instead, he will ask questions like, "If a dragon had attacked your class at 10:30 this morning, who would have been eaten first and why?"
   2. "You'll understand when you're older." This is annoying. Either explain it to me now, or admit that you don't understand it either.
   3. "Because I said so." This is not a reason. If you don't have a good reason for telling me to do something, then I have no reason at all to actually do it.
   4. "Ask your mother." All sensible fathers should assume that this avenue of inquiry has already been exhausted if the question has made it as far as them.
   5. "When I was your age. . ." These sorts of stories are filled with irrelevant data points from a time before PlayStations and I fail to see how your stone age experiences relate to my current life.
4. Finally, he will attend all of my school and sports events, come running immediately when I call, and just generally be available to do as I tell him.

This ad is getting expensive, so I'll end the list here. I look forward to your timely response to my demands.

Yours,

Calvin

The Others is Book #2 in The Adventures of Evelyn Acorn (Book #1 being The Reality Warper). I still have a way to go, but I would love to get some feedback on the opening paragraphs as they stand so far from my fans.

Here goes...

The Others Opening Paragraphs

1. Give Up

Anyone found to be associating with any individual who identifies as a ‘True User,’ ‘Inner,’ or, worst of all, ‘Withouter’ will be subject to the harshest punishments that Alerrawian law allows—permanent imprisonment, detention, or death. Suspicion of wrongdoing is sufficient evidence for punishment to be inflicted. No arguments will be heard. No mercy will be given.

Revised Alerrawian Rules and Regulations, page 1

Ev darted through the forest, expertly dodging trees as she flew through the air. Her Withouter camouflage hid her well. Felix, the leader of the Seven and ‘ruler’ of Alerrawia, had ordered his magic users to make the forest grow at an unnatural rate. The trees were almost at Alerrawia’s gates, hiding the compound from view.

“Stupid man,” Ev muttered to herself. He must have known that trees provided as much cover for the approaching Withouters as they did for those who still followed Felix. Ev couldn’t see much, but she and her troops could get a lot closer than ever before without anyone knowing.

“Positions?” she whispered softly into the handheld radio Viola had conjured out of thin air.

“In place.”

“Ready.”

“In position.”

The voices echoed back, some using magical radios of their own, some simply making direct use of the telepathy that fueled the radios in the first place.

“There’s too many of us,” Ev said, quietly.

“You can’t do everything on your own,” was the reply.

Ev didn’t look at Lulerain, the olive pixie that was always, unrelentingly at her side. Lulerain was always trying to protect Ev, always trying to help.

But Ev didn’t need help. Not really.

“Claster’s getting closer,” said Lulerain when it became clear that Ev wasn’t going to answer. “He’ll be ready shortly.”

“Yes, fine,” said Ev, through gritted teeth. Ev hated the idea of Claster serving as a distraction. She hated that anyone except her was here. In the line of fire. Able to be hurt.

If they’d all just let her do it herself. . .

The trees below Ev shook and trembled.

“That will be the giants,” said Lulerain, as if Ev didn’t know...

Today's writing prompt challenge was provided by Stephen:

One of the eggs was not like the others...

I know Stephen "fairly" well, so I know he's thinking something like 'a duck egg among the chicken eggs,' but I'm thinking something like 'a dragon egg among the Fabergé,' and I think that is very good insight into our marriage 😆.

Let's see where the story goes. I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but stories write themselves. I start out with what I think is a good idea, and then the story says, "Thanks for your help, but I've got this," and then there are words on a page supposedly written by me.

I Wish

I sneak into the wizard's room. I know I am not supposed to be there, but he is away, and I don't know when he will return. He has been gone for five days. He has never been gone that long before, and I have eaten all the bread he left for me.

I know that the wizard keeps food in his room. He locks it away so that I don't eat him out of house and home.

I have never been in his room. Even though I am little, I must keep the house clean. Even though I cannot see the top of the table, I must clear it. Even though I cannot reach the bookshelves, I must dust them.

But the wizard's room is out of bounds.

I open the door a crack and slide in, as if not opening the door all the way will lessen my crime. I can tell right away that the wizard does not clean his room either. There is dust on every surface, piles of clothes, clutter as far as the eye can see. I don't care. I have only one goal:

Eat.

I was given to the wizard a long time ago, when I was even littler, because my parents didn't know what to do with me. They didn't know what to do when I spoke back. they didn't know what to do when I cried.

They didn't know what to do when I wished.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and say, "I wish for food."

Sometimes my wishes work, sometimes they don't. If I am very, very clear, they work better. Today I am too hungry to be clear, and while my mouth says, "I wish for food," my little mind says, "I wish for . . .". I am too little to understand what I really want.

I open my eyes. In front of me I see a basket of eggs.

I love eggs, but I am too little to cook them. I sigh. The wish worked, and it didn't. It gave me the wizard's hidden food, but it is not food I can eat.

I am about to try again when the basket gives a violent shake.

I shriek. The wizard likes monsters. He brings them home and makes them chase me. Who knows what this could be?

The basket shakes again. I am too afraid to move. Eggs topple out, some breaking as they hit the floor, and I cry as I see the growing mess, knowing that I will be punished harshly for causing it to happen.

Another shake. More eggs tumble to reveal. . .something underneath. A sunbeam catches it through the window, causing the thing to glimmer.

Curiosity overtakes me. That was something else my parents didn't know--what to do about me when I was curious. I take a step closer. The thing shakes again, but now I can see that it is a golden egg, scaly and five times the size of the others.

Another shake. A crack appears along the egg's side.

"I wish," I start to say, but I don't know how to finish.

The crack lengthens. A claw shoots out. I take a step back, but I do not leave. Curiosity keeps me in place.

"I wish," I try again, but I still don't know what I want.

The egg shatters. A ball of scales and claws and teeth is revealed, covered in egg slime. I know right away what it is.

Dragon.

Dragons can often be seen flying overhead. Sometimes the king sends men to kill one, but that just makes the rest angry. They come in their dozens and burn whatever they see. They know when one of their number is hurt or captured, even if we do it in secret, they know.

This dragon is just a baby. This dragon is only little.

Like me.

My parents gave me to the wizard. I suspect that the dragon's parents had no say in the matter.

The dragon clambers out of the basket and skitters towards me, unsteady on its feet at first, but soon walking with purpose. With surprising speed, it claws its way up my leg, up my back, and onto my shoulder, where it nestles against my neck.

"What do baby dragons eat?" I wonder, but the answer doesn't matter--if there is no food for me, there is no food for the dragon either.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

A voice from behind sends me scurrying across the wizard's room. I turn to face the speaker, already knowing that it is the wizard himself, furious at my transgression.

The dragon is startled. It buries its claws deeper in my collar as I run.

"I--" There is nothing I can say to appease the wizard.

"That is MY dragon! How dare you hatch it?"

I want to yell that dragons can't be owned. I want to yell that I didn't hatch it, it just hatched on its own. I want to defend myself, desperately, but as usual the words refuse to form on my lips.

The dragon gives a tiny cry, and I remember.

Dragons always find each other.

As the wizard stalks towards me, I scoop the baby into my hands and hold it up to my face. Then, I say, "I wish your parents will find you now."

The dragon cries again. This time it is loud enough to cause the wizard to stumble to a halt, to throw his hands over his ears. In the distance, I hear the familiar sound of powerful wings beating the air. Moments later, I smell smoke.

I smile. I run to the balcony, flinging open the door. I hold the baby up to the sky so that its parents can see it better.

It cries again. An answering roar tells me they are close. I know without turning around that the wizard is right behind me. I consider throwing the baby and hoping it can fly, but then a stream of fire shoots over my head.

I don't turn around. I don't need to look to know what I will see.

An enormous golden dragon, a gigantic version of the tiny creature I hold in my hands, descends until its eyes are level with mine. I hold out the baby on open palms. The baby jumps into the air. For a moment, I think it's tiny wings won't support it, but then it succeeds, its wings flickering as it flits towards its parent, landing on its back.

I wait to be incinerated, like the wizard.

Instead, the dragon stretches one long claw towards me. I don't move. I don't want to. Whatever happens to me now will mean an end to how things were before, and I am ready to accept my fate.

Gently, the dragon grips me in its claw, lifting me into the air. I do not struggle as it flies away with me in tow. I choose instead to admire the view, to watch the dragons of blue and green and red join my captor and fly back towards the mountains in which they live.

"I wish," I try again. Suddenly, my thoughts clear, and I know what I want. I breathe a deep sigh of relief, close my eyes, and say, "I wish for peace."

Fan Amelia gave me some options:

Writing Prompts
1. A dying fire
2. Red hair in messy braids
3. A grey fox with silver eyes

1. Thin blankets
2. The last autumn leaf on the tree
3. Green eyes with tears

1. A storm
2. The old oak tree
3. A scar

1. Barbed wire
2. A scrap of blue fabric
3. Howling winds

The 'grey fox with silver eyes' has my attention, so I guess I'm doing the first one!

Mine

Deep in the woods, a fire is burning. It is a small fire, and it will not burn for much longer, but for now it fights valiantly against the biting wind and softly falling snow.

Next to the fire lies a child, disheveled red hair barely contained by the braids some caring adult had thoughtfully twisted into place many hours before. The child is too deeply asleep to notice that the fire is dying, that the adults have not returned, that she is terribly, terribly cold.

It's the sort of deep, cold sleep from which many never wake.

Perhaps that is better. There are things in the woods. They only came this way because the roads are too dangerous, the clash of steal and smell of blood never too far away. The stories of creatures from other worlds slinking in the shadows, of trees that moved, of paths that vanished, were not enough to dissuade the desperate travelers.

A vixen appears. She enters the clearing in which the child lies and the fire dies. The vixen is gray, almost white . She sits and surveys the scene, head slightly tilted as if in deep contemplation.

The vixen's eyes are perfectly silver, from end-to-end, no irises, no pupils. She is perfectly still, her tail wrapped around her feet, statue-like and not appearing to breathe.

Eyes glow between the trees. These eyes are not silver. Some are yellow. Some are red. Some are black and can only be seen if you know what you're looking for.

The vixen moves. The suddenness causes some of the eyes to retreat, but only some, and not very far. The vixen approaches the child. She circles her, sniffing.

The vixen lies down next to the child. She curls her body around the girl's. As she curls, her body grows and grows until soft, gray fur envelops the child, warming her through.

The child sighs. A bad dream vanishes. A good one takes it place.

Yellow eyes approach, close to the ground and hissing. The vixen raises her head and hisses back, louder and stronger. The yellow eyes pause. The vixen bares her teeth. The eyes blink once, then leave.

Red eyes approach, high in the branches, floating from one tree to the next. The vixen blocks the child's ears with her fur and howls at the red eyes in the eerie, high-pitched way of her kind. The red eyes watch a moment longer, then they too leave.

Black eyes approach. The vixen tracks their movement through the trees, which bend and crack as the creature crashes forward.

In a voice that, for the briefest instant, causes the stars to shine brighter, the snow to pause in its descent, time to stop, the vixen says:

"Mine."

The black eyes don't pause.

"Mine!"

The rustling sound of branches being torn from their trees still for a moment, then continue.

"MINE!"

The black eyes stop. For long minutes they stare at each other, silver against black.

Then, the black eyes retreat.

The vixen sighs. She lays her head upon the child's, but her eyes and ears remain watchful.

Footsteps approach. The vixen's head snaps up.

It is only the child's adults, their all night wandering in the woods at an end. They have found their way back to the fire and in moments they will stumble into the clearing.

The sun is rising. The woods are safer in the day. The vixen detaches herself from the child and melts into the trees.

The child wakes just as her adults appear. She smiles and waves and the weight of worry on the older faces drops away in an instant.

The vixen watches a moment longer, then turns to leave.

The second writing prompt given to me by my fans is from Lesley:

What zoo animals think of humans and what they say to each other when all the visitors have gone home.

I immediately thought that it had to be a kids story, maybe something that gets illustrated someday.

Here you go!

After the Gates Close

The zoo is quiet; it has closed for the day.
But not for too long--the animals have something to say.

"Have they left?" asked the zebra, shaking her mane.
"I think so, indeed," called the lovely blue crane.

"Did you notice the one who ignored all the rules?"
Chirped the small little birds on the backs of the mules.

"Oh yes," said the hippo, her voice deep and loud.
"He hung on the fences and pushed through the crowd!"

"We don't see what's wrong with hanging about,"
said the monkeys together with a terrible shout.

"Mischief is fine for the monkeys and apes,
But a human boy child is supposed to behave."

(The hippo disliked it when people were rude,
running around or spitting their food.)

"I like the ones who drop their French fries,
And watch us with phones instead of their eyes."

This came from a seagull, who didn't live in the zoo.
She just liked to visit when passing through.

"I like the tiny ones, in pink and in blue.
they point with wide eyes--for them it's all new."

"You're a capybara," said El. "You're friendly to all.
Of course you like babies who can't even crawl."

Everyone stopped to listen to the old elephant,
When complaining he was in his element.

"I like the old ones, who walk nice a slow,
Who read all the signs and tell us 'Hello."

The whole zoo erupted with howls not of glee.
Which humans were best? They could never agree.

Were the best ones the ones who took hundreds of pics?
Or the toddlers who laughed at monkey's weird tricks?

The ones who stayed for moments? The ones who stayed all day?
The ones who dressed in rainbows or the ones who dressed in gray?

"My favorite human is one we know well."
Said the owl from on high; a silence befell.

"The zookeeper cares for us and brings us our food.
He makes sure we're well and lightens our mood."

"You're right," said the hippo. "He's a wonderful guy."
"We agree," said the monkeys, with a unified cry.

"Hear, hear!" called the zebra. "I agree! I agree!"
"Me too!" said the bear in a voice full of glee.

Silence descended across the the whole zoo,
There wasn't a snuffle or howl or a moo.

Tomorrow would bring more humans to stare,
At the zebra and elephant and fuzzy black bear.

But for now they would sleep, warm and content,
Pleased with another day perfectly spent.

I asked my Facebook followers to send me writing prompts. I promised to write them each a story between 100 and 1,000 words. People still have a few more days to submit, but I thought I would go ahead and get started.

The first prompt is from Laurie:

Young nature-loving, loner teen finds a friend in the woods, it’s not any animal she recognizes, but it speaks to her fluently in her mother tongue.

Let's dive in!

The Creature

Caroline ran through the woods, tears streaming down her face. She barely knew why she was crying, why was running, just that it was all too much, and she had to get away.

There had to be more to life than studying and gymnastics, gymnastics and studying, over and over again in an endless loop. Mom wanted her to do well at school, Dad wanted a champion in the family ("even if it is only gymnastics"), and nobody seemed to care what Caroline wanted.

She doubled her pace, tried to outrun her thoughts, but no matter how fast she went, they stayed with her, right up until she stumbled to a halt in a familiar clearing.

The clearing was cool and welcoming. Almost exactly in the middle was a log, just the right size for a small teenager to sit comfortably. Caroline new it well.

Today, the log had a new occupant, one with six enormous black wings, ragged and bat-like, poking from its back like they had cut their way through its skin. Its body was long, like a snake, but segmented and hard, like a scorpion. It had six scaly legs ending in sharp claws. Two of these claws were balanced precariously on the tree stump. The rest of its body reared up and up towards the trees, culminating in a gaping maw in an eyeless head. Its mouth was stretched open and three rows of craggy, yellowing teeth could be seen within.

Caroline shrieked.

The creature jumped as though startled. It fell backwards in its surprise, its middle and upper limbs flailing comically as it collapsed.

"Bugger," said the creature.

Caroline was frozen in place. If she'd been only afraid, she would have turned and run, but confusion took over and left her unable to move.

What was it? Why could it speak?

The creature flailed on its back . Two of its legs were pinned beneath it.

Then it said, "I don't suppose you have a moment to help me up?"

Caroline hesitated, but the creature didn't seem to be a threat, not in its current state. She edged around the log to get a closer look.

"If I do help you up," she said, eventually, "will you eat me?"

"Eat you?" it asked. "You sound and smell like you're made of meat." The creature shuddered. "I am strictly vegetarian, thank you very much."

"You have rather a lot of teeth," Caroline said.

"Yes, I told her I wouldn't need them all," said the creature.

"Told who?"

"The creator. She's experimenting." The creature waved at its body with one of its free limbs. "But all this? Its a bit much, isn't it?"

Caroline found herself nodding in agreement.

"I'd like to remind you that I have no eyes," said the creature into the silence.

"Oh, no, so sorry, I agree complete, it is all a bit much."

"Thanks," huffed the creature.

"You said it first."

"It's still rather rude to agree, don't you think?"

"I don't think," said Caroline, sadly. "That's what my math teacher says. I just can't seem to break past an A-. And coach says I need to engage my mind as well as my body. She's always keeping me back to practice, practice, practice after everyone else has left."

"Your grownups sound like they need to relax," said the creature. It wriggled again and, before she could stop herself, Caroline was at its side.

"I'm going to try tilting you," she said. With the strength of someone who was used to performing complex gymnastics, she rolled the creature over enough for it to shake its legs free.

The creature scrambled upright. Caroline backed away hurriedly, suddenly wondering if she'd made the right choice. She glanced behind her. The trees were tightly packed, if she slipped through quickly . . .

With an enormous sigh, the creature stretched and settled on its hind and middle limbs, like a dog lying down. Its top half remained upright. It folded its front legs across its chest and tilted its head towards Caroline. "It sounds like you want to run away," it said, sadly.

"No, not at all," said Caroline, years of trying to please others kicking in. "You were saying something about the creator?" she asked, politely.

"Yes," said the creature with a mournful sigh. "I wanted to be a little grosbeak, flitting thought the trees on light little wings. Instead. . .well, you can see for yourself."

"I wanted to write stories," said Caroline. "Instead. . ." She didn't have to finish the sentence.

There was a brief silence, not uncomfortable, as the two each contemplated their own misery.

"Do you need a hug?" asked the creature, suddenly. "Sorry if it's a weird thing to ask, but I know I could use one."

Caroline looked at the creature that she had found so terrifying when she'd first entered the clearing. It was big and scary, but it was also sad and vulnerable and all alone.

"Why not?" she said. Before she could change her mind she stepped toward the creature and threw her arms around its hard and slightly slimy torso.

The creature wrapped its upper limbs around her shoulders, squeezing gently. "It will be alright," it said. "We'll either figure it out, or we'll try something new."

Caroline closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, the creature was gone. Her arms were wrapped around a tree. She looked around in confusion, but there was no sign that her new friend had ever been there to begin with.

But her tears were gone. Her racing heart had stilled. She was safe, she was content, and great sense of peace had settled upon her.

With a relieved sigh, she turned to go home.

Feedback requested! Below are the opening paragraphs of the best thing I have ever written. Before I start looking for an agent for Earthquake House, I want to make sure that the opening lines draw people in. Before you dive in, you might find this summary of the story useful. Let me know what you think!

Earthquake House Opening Paragraphs

1. The Invariable Door

Alchemy padded across the plush, purple carpet of the entry hall toward the central staircase. It wasn’t that they minded waking the others—this was Alchemy’s house, and they could do what they liked. Everyone else lived there by their will alone. But being afraid to go to sleep was rather embarrassing, and Alchemy didn’t want to endure the whispers and glances. Besides, they were on edge. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“It’s just a lack of sleep,” they whispered to themself. “Everything is fine. Everything is always fine.”

As always, Alchemy was dressed in a striking purple suit. They couldn’t see their outfit in the dark, but they strutted proudly anyway. Today, their waistcoat was yellow and their cravat white, but those were just details. It was the purple that mattered. It brought out the color in Alchemy’s eyes.

Alchemy’s long white hair was plaited neatly in a line down their back and secured at the end with an enormous satin bow. Alchemy liked to look pristine, so they always did. Magic made it easy.

The others were asleep, curled up on an assortment of purple couches that were all slightly shorter and slightly narrower than was entirely comfortable. Alchemy liked to know that people lived in their House because they wanted to, not because it was better than anywhere else. Gentle snores wafted through the air, although, much to Alchemy’s dismay, the patch of darkness that shrouded Constance’s couch was suspiciously silent.

The House was great at keeping itself dark when its residents wanted to sleep. Alchemy was certain that Constance couldn’t see them, even if she was awake, but they hurried toward the stairs anyway, expertly dodging couches and boxes overflowing with personal belongings. All the furniture was nailed to the floor, so it was always in the same place. As for the clutter, the random bits and pieces that represented the lives of Earthquake House’s residents, Alchemy could sense where they lay, scattered by people who had more important things to do than tidy up after themselves.

The House had sprung into existence directly from Alchemy’s mind. Like all house owners in the Valley, Alchemy and the House had a special bond, a special understanding.

What the House knew, Alchemy knew.

If they wanted to...

This is my last 'old' Reedsy story to post! Short Story Spotlights will be a little more sparse after this, as you'll have to wait for me to actually write new stuff.

Mushrooms and Mice is a short story about how even little people can turn the tables on their powerful rulers, with the right encouragement and tools. This story was written in response to the following prompt:

Write a story in which a character eats something that they shouldn’t have eaten.

Enjoy!

Mushrooms and Mice

I am only little. The Wizard says that if I were good, I would be bigger, but because I am bad, I will be little forever.

I cannot see what's on the table unless I stand on my tiptoes and stretch, but I must clear it anyway.

I cannot add wood to the fire without being singed, but I must stoke it anyway.

I cannot reach the windows without first putting a heavy box on a heavy chair, but I must wash them anyway.

Sometimes, I talk to Mouser, the cat.

Sometimes, Mouser talks back.

Mouser says that the Wizard has the wrong word. Instead of 'little' he should call me 'young.'

I am too little to understand the difference.

Today, I am sweeping the floor with a broom that is taller than I am. If the floor isn't swept by the time the wizard returns, he will throw me in the coal shed. I don't like the coal shed. It has spiders and is very cold, so I sweep as quickly as I can. I think about hiding the dirt under the carpet, but the Wizard always checks, so I carefully sweep it out the back door instead, bit by bit. Whenever I open the door, the cold wind bites my feet like thousand hungry bed bugs.

Hungry. I am so hungry. I'm always hungry, but today I have not had breakfast. The Wizard sometimes brings food for me when he returns, but not always, and I don't know where he is or how long he will be gone. I can drink water if I melt snow next to the fire, and if I don't make a mess that the Wizard will notice, but there is no food that I am allowed to touch.

Mouser yowls in the corner. He doesn't have any words for me today. Maybe he is hungry too. Maybe the paw that the Wizard trod upon is hurting him. He is very skinny. I am very skinny. The Wizard says I am skinny because I am bad. If I were good, I would be fat and tasty.

The broom hits my feet. I fall over it and tumble to the ground. I start to cry. If the wizard comes home to find me crying, he will be angry, but I cannot stop my tears. Pain tears at my stomach and my eyes and my head and I can't make it stop.

There's a bowl on the table, says Mouser. I look at him. My tears start to go away. Mouser isn't crying anymore. He is looking at me and he wants me to stop crying too.

"I can't eat what's on the table," I remind Mouser. "That's the Wizard's food."

No. But you can look at it.

Mouser is right. I am allowed to look at what's on the table. Keeping the table clean is my job.

I get to my feet and cross the wooden floor. Every floorboard creaks at me, louder than usual, as if warning me to stay away, but Mouser is never wrong.

I put my hands on the edge of the table and pull myself up, standing on my toes. The bowl is there, filled with the purple mushrooms that I am never allowed to eat. I cannot see the mushrooms--the bowl is too high--but I can smell them, deep and dark like potatoes that have just been pulled from the ground.

"Mouser, I may not eat them," I say, but maybe I am talking to myself.

You may not eat the mushrooms in the bowl, says Mouser.

"Yes, that's what I said--"

I stop.

On the table, next to the bowl, lies a single purple mushroom. It is small and crooked and I wonder if the other mushrooms threw it out for being different.

It is not in the bowl, says Mouser.

Sometimes, I am allowed to eat leftovers that are on the table. Sometimes the Wizard even lets me eat them off a plate.

"Is it a leftover?" I ask Mouser.

Why not?

I cannot quite reach the mushroom. I climb onto the Wizard's chair, an offense that will earn me worse than the coal shed if I am seen, but I am so hungry, and the mushroom is so close. I lean across the table, almost lying on it, and my fingers touch the mushroom. It is soft in my hand and as I bring it to my mouth I notice a strange smell, but I don't, I can't care.

I chew, then swallow.

Spots appear in my eyes. I cry again. "It doesn't help," I wail to Mouser. "It is too little, I am still hungry. . ."

What do you wish for? Mouser asks. It is a strange question, but Mouser's questions are often strange.

"I wish I wasn't hungry," I say. I can hardly understand myself through my tears.

Suddenly, my stomach fills. It feels the same as the time the Wizard's sister visited and gave me some pie under the table. The pain in my stomach is gone.

My tears stop.

What else do you wish? Mouser asks.

"I wish. . . I wish that you were not hungry, Mouser."

Mouser sits up, no longer sad and droopy. He begins to lick his injured paw.

"I wish that your paw didn't hurt," I say.

Mouser looks at his paw for a moment. Then, he stretches and walks towards the table, bounding up to join me in one smooth movement.

"I wish that we were not skinny," I say. Mouser's body grows larger, his skin pulling tightly as he becomes fat. I feel my own body grow bigger.

"I wish we were not little," I whisper.

Mouser grows again. His head swells, bigger and bigger. His claws leave scratches in the table as his legs lengthen and stretch. He looks surprised as his body grows and grows and grows until he is as big as Farmer' Mason's cow.

My own legs are hanging off the side of the table. When my feet hit the ground, I know that I am growing too. I stand up. I grow taller and taller, wider and wider, until my head touches the rafters. I knock against the ceiling with my knuckles. Dust and cobwebs shower onto the floor.

The table collapses under Mouser. Purple mushrooms scatter across the floor.

"Enough," I say.

We both stop growing.

"I wish--"

The door slams open. The Wizard is home. Fear grips my heart, but then I see how small he is, smaller than the door that he just opened, smaller than one of my legs, so, so little.

"What is the meaning of this?" he thunders, and my chest tightens until I realize that his voice is little now, too.

He sees a mushroom on the ground. He lunges for it. Mouser pounces first, squashing the mushroom under his feet and hissing in the Wizard's face.

Mouser is between the Wizard and the door. The Wizard whimpers and backs towards the wall.

Mouser looks at me. What do you wish? he asks.

I bend over so that my big head is very very close to the Wizard's little one. I smile at him.

Then I say, "I wish the Wizard was a mouse."

Today's short story spotlight (originally posted on my Reedsy blog) is all about making a deal with the devil. Our heroine, Matilda, is just the right sort of person to come out on top. . .if she's smart enough.

Family Is. . . was written in response to the following prompt:

Black Friday is the one day of the year where the Devil makes selling your soul a good thing, although there are some bizarre T’s & C’s.

Family Is...

Matilda glanced nervously back at her car. Maybe she should just go home?

She had driven as far out of the city as she could, twisting through country roads until she found what she was looking for. Now she was here, and all she felt was heavy embarrassment.

She was a sensible adult human, attending a sensible college to finish a sensible bachelor's degree. Sensible women did not dabble in the occult.

Yet, she took the box from the right pocket of her oversized coat.

"This is stupid," she said, as she knelt in the center of the crossroads, lit by her car's headlights. "It won't work."

But, if it didn't work, what did she have to lose?

She scrabbled at the dirt, digging a shallow hole. Once the hole was big enough, she opened the box to double-check its contents. A picture of herself. A handful of dirt from the graveyard next to the local church. A bone from a black cat, retrieved from her own mother's pet cemetery.

Everything the almighty Internet said was needed.

She tucked the box into the hole and scraped dirt over it.

Absolutely nothing happened.

"Stupid," she said to herself, scrambling to her feet. "Of course, it didn't work-"

"Good evening, mortal," a deep, sonorous voice intoned. Matilda spun round in shock.

A tall, attractive man with dark hair and dark eyes stood behind her, at the exact point in the road where there was the least amount of light from the car. He had a small goatee that he managed to pull off, despite it being rather old-fashioned, and he wore a well-tailored suit that accentuated his muscular frame.

He also had horns and goat legs.

Matilda screamed.

"Rude," said the man, snapping his fingers.

Matilda's voice vanished.

Fear flooded Matilda's veins. She tried to run, but her legs were glued in place.

"I know, it's a shock, but can we just get on with it? I’m rather busy, you know."

The man's officious, vaguely British accent detracted slightly from his unusual appearance and Matilda found her mouth closing, her heart beat slowing, and her mind clearing.

It had worked.

A smile crept across her face.

"Good," said the man, snapping his fingers again. Matilda stumbled as she regained control of her legs. A clipboard appeared in the man's hands. "As for today's specials." He cleared his throat rather self-consciously. "First, the usual terms of your soul in exchange for ten years of life before being dragged to hell by ravenous hellhounds can be exchanged for thirty years of life and a peaceful journey to hell, no hell hounds required. Would you like to redeem this one-day-only offer?"

"Um. Yes?" said Matilda.

"Excellent," said the man, using his fingernail to sear an X onto the page on his clipboard. " Next, deals are usually sealed with a handshake, but for today ONLY, you can seal it with a kiss."

"Uh," said Matilda, but he was very handsome, goat legs aside, so, "Sure," she said.

The man blinked.

"Oh," he said.

"I mean, if you want to, an all that," said Matilda. "We can do the handshake thing too, if you prefer…"

"No, no, I'd be happy to, no need to apologize, none at all." The man coughed nervously as he seared another X.

"Any other specials..?" Matilda asked, to fill the awkward silence.

" Oh yes, one more. Today, and today only, you, Matilda, are honored to have your request processed by the Devil, the King of Hell, none other than Satan himself, ME!"

He bowed dramatically.

"Oh," said Matilda, politely. "Cool."

The Devil straightened and patted his hair uncomfortably. "It's just that, you know, it's quite a big deal-"

"Of course,” said Matilda, to smooth the awkwardness. "You can't have management popping up here for any old thing."

"Quite, it’s just such a special day, I like to do something to mark it.”

"That's a lovely idea, the personal touch is so rare these days."

Another awkward silence.

"Is this a special satanic holiday or some-"

"Black Friday," snapped the Devil. "It's not the dark ages. Hell is capable of aligning with modern trends."

"That explains the traffic on my way here, anyway," said Matilda.

"Probably."

"So... do I just ask for my thing, or...?"

"Yes, yes, my apologies, go right ahead, I'm all ears." The Devil flipped to the next page of his clipboard and looked at Matilda expectantly, fingernail poised to take notes.

Matilda took a deep breath. "My little sister...There was an accident, she's in a coma, they don't know if..." tears choked her voice. "I just want her to wake up, to be completely alright, to have a long, normal, happy life, that's all."

"Ah, yes, very usual, very normal, yes, um," the Devil stammered. He fiddled with his clipboard and then asked, rather suddenly, "But are you sure you want to spend your deal on this?"

For a moment, Matilda was too surprised to answer, but then she said, "Of course. I wouldn't be here for anything else."

"The Devil looked at his clipboard, a confused frown on his face, "It says here that the child is a step-sister and we usually don't see these sorts of requests for anything short of a blood relative or lover, and-"

"Family is what we say it is," said Matilda, her voice cold.

"I can see you're determined-"

"I am," said Matilda.

"Very well. In exchange for the peaceful harvesting of your soul in exactly thirty years, your sister will wake from her coma and live a long happy life."

Matilda would be nearly fifty when the time came. It was an easy decision to make. "Correct," she said.

"Good," said the Devil stepping closer. "To seal the deal..."

Matilda snorted and looked away.

"It's on the clipboard, we can't really walk it back..."

Matilda strode towards the Devil, grabbed him by the lapels of his suit, and drew him towards her. As his mouth neared hers, the Devil muttered, "Terms and conditions apply."

Despite everything, the kiss was not entirely unpleasant.

*

"To the world's best sister!" Matilda finished, holding her glass high.

Glasses clinked, guests cheered, and Emma, now a young student at university, smiled happily at the other end of the long table.

Matilda smiled back. It was a relief to feel a real smile on her lips, after a full day of pretending, always on the lookout for danger.

She had no reason to doubt the Devil. She still had twenty years left. Everything else had played out according to plan. After the kiss, the Devil had vanished in a puff of smoke, and Matilda had jumped in her car and returned home to find her phone, which she had forgotten there, filled with calls and texts about Emma's miraculous recovery. He had kept his side of the deal.

Someone let off a confetti canon with a bang and Matilda's smile slipped.

"You're right to be worried," said a voice in her ear.

Time stopped. Confetti hung motionless in the air. No one moved, except for Matilda.

Carefully, she composed herself, then said, "So, you're breaking our deal." She took a slow, long sip of wine. "I still think it was worth it."

This was met with the sound of a chair being dragged across the restaurant floor. She felt rather than saw the Devil sit down next to her.

"Terms and conditions," he said. "Remember?"

Matilda had thought of little else all day, but what she said was, "No."

"Basically," said the Devil, "every ten years until your time is up you have to visit hell to fully understand what your fate will be. It was the only way I could get my thirty-year plan past the board, I’m afraid."

Matilda downed the rest of her wine in one gulp. She slammed the glass down on the table and wiped her mouth. "Could be worse," she said. "Let's get it over with."

She turned to the Devil.

He looked exactly the same as she remembered him, and she was suddenly very conscious of how nearly thirty was different to nearly twenty and that she was practically halfway dead.

"Will it hurt?" she asked, before she could stop herself.

"Not at all, it's merely a visual experience."

The Devil laid a hand on Matilda's arm. He caught her gaze and stared deeply into her eyes.

Then, he blinked.

Matilda's ears filled with screams.

The restaurant was gone. She stood in an enormous, smoke-filled cavern, lit only by the light from the lava pits that seeped below and the flaming pitchforks carried by stereotypical little red demons, pointy tales and red horns all in place.

"What do you think?" the Devil asked.

Matilda surveyed the scene. She watched a naked woman fall screaming into a pit of lava, her skin melting from her bones until she could scream no more, only to be pulled from the pit to repeat the task over and over again. She watched a man being eaten alive by a group of ravenous demons, only for each of his body parts to regrow a moment later to be eaten all over again. She watched a conveyor belt of meat hooks stream by, each with a screaming mortal trapped upon it. As they passed, demon's whipped their naked backs.

"I've seen worse," she said, automatically. It wasn't true, but neither had it been true half of the other times she'd said the words either in all her time as a Workplace Morale and Efficiency Consultant.

That’s what a vague bachelor’s degree got you.

"What?" said the Devil.

"Look, I'm not saying it's the best I've seen either," she continued, allowing her brain to slide gratefully into autopilot. "Take this lava pit right here. In the time it takes for this lady to fully deconstruct, your employees could be preparing this gentleman over here for the next spike to go up his rear end. Are you following?"

"I think so-"

"And why do you have two whipping stations?" she asked, pointing at the meat hook conveyor belt with one hand and waving at a pit of general savagery with the other. "Don't waste time and resources by doubling up on work."

She was basically babbling, but the Devil was listening, so she kept going.

"Of course, these are all just surface-level details," she added airily. "The real problem you have here, my friend, is severely low staff morale. Not a smile in the place. And look how they have to run from one task to the next without pause because of the inefficiencies in the overall system. If we conducted a survey-"

"No more surveys," said the Devil with a shudder.

Matilda glanced at the Devil, but let it slide. "Survey or no survey," she said, "You've got to make some changes, or else you're going to lose your people to the competition."

"The other mythologies have nothing on us," the Devil barked.

"Nevertheless, your people are well within their rights to leave-"

"We are?" squeaked a small voice next to Matilda's ear but she kept talking as if she hadn't been interrupted. Demons had begun to draw closer to listen.

"Regular breaks, fair compensation, asking your people what they think their futures should look like, these are all small and free ways to begin fixing your culture problem..." A susurration that grew quickly into an uproar soon made it pointless to continue speaking. The Devil grabbed Matilda's arm and a moment later they were back in the blissfully quiet restaurant.

The Devil was panting as if he had just run a marathon.

“See you in ten years?” Matilda asked.

With a snort, the Devil vanished.

*

"It's fine, really," said Matilda into the phone. "I know it's difficult for you to get away. Enjoy it... yes, and do your research, if you want to be boring." Matilda giggled. "I just want you to know that I am so, so proud of you! I'll see you at Christmas. Okay, yes, love you too, bye!"

She hung up.

"It's rude to listen to other people's conversations you know," she said to the shadow in the corner of the living room.

The Devil stepped out of the shadows. "She seems happy?" he asked, tentatively.

"She is happy, and I regret nothing," said Matilda. "Should we be on our way?" she added, hooking her arm into the Devil’s.

With an enormous sigh, the Devil snapped his fingers.

Screams filled the air, but there was something different about them this time. They were more regular, almost as if they were being timed.

She surveyed the scene. "Well, you seem at least partially open to feedback, so that's something, I suppose."

There was very little smoke in the cavern. The lava pits had safety railing around the edges, and in the nearest one a group of demons were splashing with every sign of enjoyment.

Matilda strode towards them, stopping when her feet began to feel uncomfortably warm. "Good day," she said. "I'm conducting a review of working conditions at this facility. Would you say that opportunities for fun, such as what you are currently experiencing are a) regular, b) infrequent, or c) only happening right now because of this pre-planned spot-check?"

A synchronized scream ripped through the air. Matilda ignored it.

"Oh, regular," said one demon. "The union sees to that."

"When was this union established?" Matilda asked.

"Almost exactly ten years ago," said another demon, grinning broadly.

Another scream shook the air and the three demons grimaced.

"And what would you say are your top complaints about your current work environment?"

"Well... that," said the third demon who hadn't spoken yet as it pointed up at the ceiling.

Matilda looked up.

Rows of naked humans stood in line on and endless array of narrow platforms. They were talking quietly among themselves. As Matilda watched, a troop of demons approached, one demon to each human. All of the demons were looking in the same direction, towards an enormous clock that hung in midair. It had no numbers and only one hand that clicked sonorously around the dial.

When the hand hit the apex, the demons, as one, stabbed the humans in the back with flaming pitchforks. A scream ripped through the air.

Then, the humans returned to the conversations.

"We asked the board for a 96% reduction in torture due to the emotional strain it was putting on staff," a demon explained. "They eventually agreed, but they insisted that the 4% be spread evenly over all 1440 minutes in the day..."

"And the shifts are ridiculous," said another demon.

"I see," said Matilda, making another note.

"Are you quite finished," said the Devil at her side.

"No, I'd like to speak to-"

"We're leaving," he said, grabbing her elbow.

A moment later the oppressive heat of the underworld had dissipated, and Matilda was back in her apartment.

"You've made some good adjustments I see," she said, examining her clipboard and pretending like she hadn't just been ripped through space and time. " Have you considered-"

"Enough," snapped the Devil. "The place is supposed to be hellish, that's the whole point."

"Why?" said Matilda. "What do you get out of it?"

"It's just the way things are!"

"The way things are isn't the way they have to stay," said Matilda.

The Devil paused. "You said that in the same way you said, 'Family is who we say it is,'" he said. "Are you in some weird cult, or something?"

Matilda surprised herself by laughing out loud. "Nope," she said in reply. "It's just one of the healthy maxims for a happy life our mother taught us."

The Devil Frowned thoughtfully.

And then he was gone.

"See you next time," whispered Matilda.

*

"You're being weird," said Emma as Matilda hugged her hard.

"You're being weird,” said Matilda. "I'm just so happy to see you."

"We have all week together, sis," said Emma, pushing her away. "You don't need to get so soppy."

"Fine, be like that," said Matilda, throwing her nose in the air and pretending offense, but she had seen the tears at the corners of Emma's eyes as they'd ended the hug. Emma didn't know the reason for Matilda's sadness, but that didn't mean that she felt it any less.

Emma gave her another squeeze and disappeared into the B&B's kitchen to pour another round of drinks to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of Emma’s recovery.

Behind Matilda, the Devil coughed discreetly. "Would you like another moment?" he asked.

"No," said Matilda, grabbing her handbag (for what good it would do her) and standing. "Let's just go."

She couldn't look at him, unchanged as he no doubt was, and anyway the tears were flowing freely now. Pretending fearlessness was too difficult.

This time, the air didn't fill with screams. It filled instead with a bright, radiant light.

Matilda looked around suspiciously. "Where's the torture hiding?" she demanded.

They stood in the middle of an open field, filled with flowers and picnicking couples. In the distance an enormous bounce house wobbled, the sound of laughing children pouring from within. A bright purple bird flew past followed by a happily laughing woman whose hair streamed behind her.

"I couldn't stop thinking about what you said," said the Devil, quietly. "What was I getting out of any of it? So, I set my sights on upstairs and instigated a bit of a merger..." He trailed off, nervously. "Do you like it now?" he asked.

Matilda let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Yes,” she said.

"I'm still understanding the whole family thing," said the Devil. "I think I get it. I'm sorry you’ll have to wait for your sister, but then there will be eternity and-"

Matilda squeezed his hand, bringing his babbling to an end. Then she said in a low, soft voice, "Family is what we say it is."

My very talented friend, A.M. Page, wrote a picture book! I thought I would give you a taste by reading it here. Check it out for yourself: https://www.amazon.com/Misty-Luna-M-Page/dp/B0CFDJ3TJL