“Mention Saturnia one more time and I swear I’ll jettison your ass.” Xata hovered her index finger over a button on the console, and waggled it threateningly.
“Touchy, touchy.” Pell held up his hands. “You know, you’ve threatened me with that at least twenty times.”
“Doesn’t speak well about your performance.”
“Or your leadership.”
Xata grunted and jabbed the button, calling up the fuel display. “We have to stop at Timus to refuel.”
“Ugh, that place smells terrible.”
“Well half their population is dead, so…”
“Our cargo. You open it?”
“Open the mysterious sarcophagus with the biohazard symbol? Hell yes.”
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: grunt, jettison, Saturn)
The men toppled like fallen trees, limbs twisting grotesquely, as Bristol’s magic ran wild across the battlefield. Her own scream heralded the sounds of the dying into the sky.
Aledorain felt his eardrums pop, as he grabbed onto Bristol’s ankle. He tried to haul himself towards her, like a dying man to shore, grunting as thorns scaled her skin and pricked his palms. His shield shuddered, as more power exploded from her. A fledgling though she was, for a moment Aledorain felt his death.
“Bristol, stop! Transfer it to me!”
It was too late. She was already gone.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: fledgling, prick, transfer)
He leans into my pelvis, and I imagine I’m lying beneath a mountain. I think about the weight of stone, and the intimate tangle of root and dirt. I think about the heat from sunlight melting down the cragged peak, and the bone-deep chill of snow, when the light is gone.
He shifts again, rolling back to his side. “Sorry love, not in commission,” he says absently, misreading the look in my eyes, as he returns to his phone.
I think of yesterday, of heat and ice and weight, of wildness. I close my eyes, and leave the room behind.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: commission, pelvis, yesterday)
Boda relishes chaos above everything. If the old gods still picked heralds, Pandemonia would have snatched her up in a heartbeat. A brazen kiss in a Kraestonien market was all it took to make me dance after her shadow, forgetting family and oaths in an instant.
Two years later, here we are. She grins with that fox-sly mouth and adoration swells in my breast, spills across my cheeks, like the blood through my fingers.
Boda adjusts the dagger tip on the priest’s fluttering throat and rummages in the stolen tithe bag.
We’re dancing with death again, and she’s excited.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: brazen, relish, tithe)
Someone is groaning pitifully. I try pursing my lips to shush them, but I can’t feel my mouth. Well, shit. I am sauced, again.
I force open an eyelid, and the moan cuts off, as the sun drives a fiery spike down into my brain. Hissing, I shut my eye.
I remember collapsing on the way to the temple. I remember laughter. I remember rough hands lifting and pushing me onto the tumbrel. I remember prayers and…screaming. I…remember…
I try to wiggle my toes, but feel nothing. I cannot feel my hands.
The gods have taken their tithe.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: collapse, sauce, tumbrel)
Blood clots at the corners of her eyes, the viscous, purple-black liquid sizzling slightly as it’s touched by the air. I stare at her. Heat and ice ripples across my back, and I reach out and stroke a finger across the feathers below her throat.
Osmaern will be frenzied when he finds her gone. I remember the sound of his trilling moan, how it hums across my skin. Do I tell him what I saw? Do I risk it? Her death means I’m no longer Third, no longer banned from the sky.
I watch as light fades from her eyes.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: clot, feather, third)
Her skin glistens in the radiant, unbound light, rime-coated flesh indistinguishable from the snow. Brown hair fans around her, and curls over the buttoned collar of a thrifted, sickly green coat. It reminds me of the threadbare sofa at gram’s house, pointedly sheathed in plastic.
Byron stomps up beside me, cursing as his foot slides in the icy snow. “Another one,” he says, his rage clear as he stares into the gutter. She looks like his daughter.
“We’ll catch him,” I say. The certainty is a rock in my gut. I’ve been careful, but nothing good lasts forever.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: gutter, rime, thrift)
Untangling massive arms from a mess of lichen-smeared scree and withered roots, the stone woman pushed herself upright.
Rai flipped her cloak up protectively, as small rocks cascaded off the woman’s shoulders. She winced as something struck her head, then nearly fell backwards off the steep slope when the guardian stamped an enormous foot.
“Who are you,” the woman said, voice rumbling like thunder.
“I seek the Mountain’s Door.” Rai craned her head back to glimpse the woman’s granite face.
“You do not conform to the garb of the Seekers.”
“The Seekers are gone. I am the Key.”
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: conform, lichen, stamp)
Callon was not one for abnegation, especially when it applied to whiskey and medieval weaponry.
“You plan the best dates,” Jaen said. She grinned a tight, dark smile and ran a finger over the sharpened point of a crossbow bolt lying on the table.
“What, no words of caution? No demands to think and sober up first?” He grinned. “No attempts to handcuff me again?”
Jaen handed him the bolt. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”
“You’re hoping Sirius puts a bullet in my chest, aren’t you.”
“You’ve got a strong core. You’ll live. More importantly, you’ll provide a distraction.”
Read the on-going story here
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: abnegate, core, whiskey)
The girl was unmemorable from her pale, slicked-back hair, to the straight line of her mouth, to the perfectly buttoned dress that skimmed the tops of stocking-covered knees. I would have dismissed her all-together, save for the preternatural stillness with which she stood by the wall.
My eye watched hers as the door’s chime sounded, and her dead brown eyes shot sideways. The movement was so fast, so unexpected, that I nearly missed the dagger slide from her sleeve into her hand.
I sighed, drained my bland beer, and reached for my gun. Life really was a perpetual hunt.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: bland, chime, perpetual)