The mice and the bats

When my son was in elementary school, I wrote a note and tucked it into his lunch every day (even after he told me in fifth grade that he wasn’t reading them any more because his best friend always teased him about it). Since my daughter has started elementary school, I’ve been doing the same for her. A bit over a week into the school year, it suddenly dawned on me that I could add pictures to her notes. What’s more, I could turn them into a story! Presented below are the scans of the first month of illustrations (not the best scans, wrinkled papers, etc.).

Oh, and my son was unhappy when he discovered I’m doing a cartoon sort of thing for his sister, as he never got one.

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Friday flash: Auburn Jones and the Reaper’s Urn

Auburn Jones and the Reaper’s Urn

The urn sat on the mantle, dusty blue with gold and cream accents — and one amorphous purplish blemish that Auburn Jones was rubbing at with a glower on her face. It wasn’t fair — just because she’d borrowed the keys to the Caddy. Death hadn’t been using it anyway!

“I’m going out. Do you think you might have that done before I get back?” Today, Death wore a white polo shirt with khakis. He gestured at the urn with his sunglasses. “You seem to have missed a spot.”

“Very funny.” Auburn threw the polishing cloth on the floor. “I’m through with this.”

Death crooked a smile at her. “The spot’s still there.”

The words were gentle, which infuriated Auburn more. It was bad enough being Death’s apprentice — it wasn’t like Death was going to retire, after all, so _what_ was she being trained for? — but then Death had to go and be so . . . so inevitable about everything. Her mistakes, punishments, Death’s reactions, everything.

Before she could decide what blistering retort to make (or to even come up with one, to be perfectly honest), Death sailed out the door, completely oblivious to her frustration or anything else she might be feeling. That, that — if she hadn’t already thrown the cloth on the floor, she certainly would have now. But she had nothing to throw unless it was the urn . . . and the spot was larger now, damn it all.

This was Death’s magic, of course. The spot wouldn’t be clean until Death decided it should be. So Death went off gallivanting in the hovercar Caddy while she stayed put like a good little apprentice. How was she ever going to learn anything this way?

Oh, right. She was supposed to be learning obedience. Like that was going to happen.

She pushed the urn off the mantle.

Rather than falling to the floor and shattering, the urn hovered — and the spot got bigger. Inevitably, of course.

The only thing inevitable about this job was how annoyed she got doing it. Apprentice herself to Death, learn cool magic, ride in a one-of-a-kind Caddy, be a bad-ass. That’s what she signed on for. Instead, she got a boss who wore polos and khakis, did lunch, and expected her to do housework if she broke the rules. She couldn’t even quit!

Not that she was sure she wanted to. She was more than half in love with Death, and she was pretty sure Death knew it, which made everything worse. Death humored her, treating her like a little girl with a crush on her first teacher. So what if Death was eternal? They still had things in common, like the car and — well, she’d think of something else. The point was, she wasn’t a little girl, and Death needed to realize it.

The blemish on the urn was now roughly the size of Auburn’s head.

Sighing, she set the urn back onto the mantel and leaned over to pick up the cloth. If she could get this done, she might have some time before Death got back from lunch to think about ways to get Death to notice her. She started rubbing.


524 words

My blog is participating in the Forward Motion Flash Friday Blog Group, a weekly flash fiction exercise (not that I’m managing weekly!). Check out the other participating blogs for more flash.

The inspiration for this flash came from two sources: a dream about Death’s hovercar Cadillac (a convertible, in case you’re curious) and Chuck Wendig’s Color Title Challenge. He even, inadvertently, gave me the exact title I used here.

Friday flash: Masks

The Sundark Festival was in full swing, with smoky scents, voices raised in laughter, and music from different instruments clashing in the streets. Irena paused and stepped, weaving her way through the crowd in the not-dance that everyone employed. A cluster of children surrounded a nut vendor, blocking her progress. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of the fresh roasted treats, and she joined the ragged line.

The vendor was quick, and she soon had a leaf-cup of nuts in her hand. As Irena turned away, someone jostled her elbow, spilling the nuts. Nettled, she spun to face the oaf. “Ay–!”

She stared into the blank face of one of the Masks, those who told of the winters to come, a single word of foretelling. Bad luck to yell at one. Swallowing her annoyance at losing her snack, she bobbed her head. “Have you a word for me?”

Silently, confusingly, it extended a hand.

Irena wasn’t sure what to do; she’d never encountered a Mask personally before. When the Mask gestured again with its hand, she took it and found something pressed into her hand. Opening her hand, she found a white disk, round and white, lacquered like the Mask’s face. She looked back up, but the Mask had gone.

She slipped the disk into her bag. She’d think about it later; now she had a festival to enjoy.

The disk slipped her mind until she turned toward home and saw a pair of Masks standing, heads leaning toward each other as if they conferred in whispers. They could talk? But of course they could; they shared words with people each festival. But no one ever heard more than a single word from a Mask in a lifetime. She itched to step closer, to hear what they said to each other.

Her hand crept inside her bag and grasped the disk there. What did it mean? It was like — and she knew the word she had been given. She crossed to join the other Masks, glad that she had had one last Festival before she hid herself behind a blank and lacquered face.


355 words

My blog is participating in the Forward Motion Flash Friday Blog Group, a weekly flash fiction exercise (not that I’m managing weekly!). Check out the other participating blogs for more flash.

Friday flash: Hot Stuff

Hot Stuff

Competition got stiffer as Andi advanced through the elimination rounds. The berries flambé in the previous round had been particularly vicious, but Andi was a better cook. Her creations were unexpected, vibrant.

Looking around the room at the other cooking stations, she caught glimpses of sharks making fin soup, lobsters boiling (she didn’t want to know what), and ghosts making ectoplasm cheese.

She finished dicing peppers and dropped them into her bowl. Done! This salsa wouldn’t just bite back; it would bite first.

Andi set the salsa loose. The other contestants on the Monster Food Circuit didn’t stand a chance.


100 words

My blog is participating in the Forward Motion Flash Friday Blog Group, a weekly flash fiction exercise (not that I’m managing weekly!). Check out the other participating blogs for more flash.

Cue portentous voice

In a world . . .

Well, it’s not really a world, is it?

In the space between worlds . . .

That’s redundant, not very descriptive, and probably not related to what you want to say.

*sigh* On a ship traveling from its homeworld . . .

Hmm. Not enough detail, I think. Could you maybe add some specifics?

The spaceship Thetis leads an escadrille out of New Alexandria on spring maneuvers–

Maybe not that specific.

In an electronic communication medium, a disembodied voice gives up and heads out for an early weekend.

Oh, sure, give up. Come on, you were almost there. One more try. . . pretty please?


100 words

My blog is participating in the Forward Motion Flash Friday Blog Group, a weekly flash fiction exercise (not that I’m managing weekly!). Check out the other participating blogs for more flash.

Friday flash: Of Bugs and Family

Of Bugs and Family

“Hey, toss me my phone, would you?” Danny caught it in one hand without looking up from his work on the table. Sherry needed to know what he’d found — before he made his report to his boss.

“You going to tell me what’s so special about this bug compared to all the others we’ve found?” his partner Jen asked. “Or do I have to read your report, as usual?”

The manikin splayed on the table didn’t move. Bands clamped its arms and legs in place, and steel pins held its vestigial wings still. “Bugs” was the term the Department used for them — highly inaccurate, but better than the tabloid presses with their “Fairies are real!” and “Whatever you do, don’t clap your hands” headlines. The bugs had been showing up in increasing numbers around the globe for the past half dozen years, and the growing unrest of the public had forced the Department to step in.

Danny didn’t answer Jen. Instead, he spoke into his phone. “Sherry? I’ll be home late — Yes, I know it’s hard on you being all alone — Yes, I miss Troy, too — No, I’m not burying myself in my work. No. No. No — Look, we’ll talk about it when I get home.”

He ended the call and dropped the phone on the table. She hadn’t let him even try to explain. That was okay. He had enough information now for his boss to agree to Danny’s plan, and this bug would lead them to the nest. The nest — a place so far existing only in theory, where the bugs bred, and where they took humans to learn their shapes.

Danny glared down at the miniature version of his missing son’s face. With luck, when he found the nest, his son Troy would still be there.

Then Sherry would forgive Danny for working these long hours. She would see he’d done it for them, for family.

Today, his family would be healed.


319 words

My blog is participating in the Forward Motion Flash Friday Blog Group, a weekly flash fiction exercise (not that I’m managing weekly!). Check out the other participating blogs for more flash.

Friday flash: FHIS Urchins

FHIS Urchins

Welcome to the FHIS Orphanage. You are here because some householder — possibly your own parent — has traded you to us in exchange for someone to do the housework. A good deal for them, not so good for you.

While you are here, you will be taught to cook and clean, as well as care for animals. When you are properly trained and ready, you, too, will be traded to a householder. With luck, you might even be rescued as a true cinder wench or goose girl — or better yet, rescue yourself.

Think of it as your fairy tale come true.


100 words

Because so many people wanted to know what happened to the urchins last week.

My blog is participating in the Forward Motion Flash Friday Blog Group, a weekly flash fiction exercise (not that I’m managing weekly!). Check out the other participating blogs for more flash.

Also, I have another drabble up at SpeckLit; it went up yesterday. Ghostwriter

Friday Flash: Fairytale Household Improvement Service

Fairytale Household Improvement Service

You’ve had those months where the housework just isn’t getting done, the mildew has formed a group consciousness and is threatening to secede from the house if you don’t do something with the paper monster in the living room, and the books have made their own fortress — twice — to keep everyone else away. Everyone has. It seems all is lost, and you have no choice but convince a passing dragon to burn it down, or perhaps (more drastic, it’s true) walk away from everything and start over in a new town.

It doesn’t have to be that way.

For just the price of your firstborn child (who isn’t doing the housework either, may I point out?) or the low, low monthly payment of two village urchins, you, too, can be the proud owner of the Fairytale Household Improvement Service. This service comes complete with two random elves or brownies (suitable for tasks ranging from shoe mending to custom boot making), one cinder wench (of random gender, suitable for all sweeping, mopping, and cleaning), and one goose girl (also random gender, suitable for work with domestic animals). Your house will never be the same!

Fine print: In the event one or more portions of this service leaves your service, you are still required to continue payment for the duration of the contract. Not responsible for loss due to flood, fire, lightning, goose droppings, clothing for naked elves, acts of fairy godmothers, or psychiatry bills for people caught talking to bloody pieces of clothing. Your service may vary. Satisfaction is not guaranteed.


259 words

My blog is participating in the Forward Motion Flash Friday Blog Group, a weekly flash fiction exercise (not that I’m managing weekly!). Check out the other participating blogs for more flash.

Friday flash: Something Blue

Something Blue

Cherry blossom petals, drifting on the breeze, caught in Angelica’s hair. She grinned but did not falter in her notes, singing the change of seasons as Drake had taught her. With the orchard full of pink blooms and the hum of bees, spring had come to the hilltop, but the dragon had told her she needed to keep singing until even the apple trees had leafed out — another month at least!

And Verena hadn’t even made a match, like she had thought. Instead, Father had sent her off to some fusty school, and Mother wouldn’t tell her why, only that they would be getting her a new tutor soon. Whatever, it gave her plenty of time to talk to Drake or to go prowling around the forest with Smoke.

Speaking of the mist cat, where had she gone? She had been lying in the sun between some of the trees, soaking up the warmth. Now she’d vanished again, disappearing like the mist she was named for. Thank goodness Angelica wasn’t as flighty as her pet.

A high-pitched sound cut across the buzz of the bees, and Angelica flinched, remembering her trip to the woods with the apples. Something had happened there, but she still didn’t know what. Maybe today, she’d talk to Drake about it. Though he’d probably just give her another song to learn.

Behind her, she heard a crunch. She whipped her head around, worried that Smoke had broken a tree limb, but instead the mist cat crouched over something at the base of a tree, her fur standing rigid all along her back. A whiff of something noxious wafted toward Angelica, and this time, she did break off her song.

A wisp of cloud blew across the sun, making her shiver momentarily.

“Smoke! Drop it.” Angelica pushed to her feet and walked toward the mist cat, hoping it wasn’t too late to rescue whatever robin or songbird had been Smoke’s prey, but the mist cat didn’t move.

Glaring at her pet, Angelica reached down, ignoring Smoke’s warning growl, and twitched something from between the mist cat’s paws. Angelica stared at the piece of blue, sort of like a crab, hard shelled. What was it? Maybe a leg or a spine? She glanced around, but saw nothing it could come from.

“Where’s the rest of it?” she asked Smoke, as though the mist cat could understand her.

Like a typical cat, Smoke sat back and started cleaning herself, completely ignoring Angelica.

Fine, then. Angelica slid the bit of shell back into her pocket. She’d talk to Drake about it later, but she knew he wouldn’t give her any answers if she didn’t finish the season song first.


448 words

My blog is participating in the Forward Motion Flash Friday Blog Group, a weekly flash fiction exercise (not that I’m managing weekly!). Check out the other participating blogs for more flash.

And if you want to read a little more from me today, you remember when I posted the questions with Alex Fayle that I said I had some drabbles coming up there? Today’s the first one, “A Heartbeat Away.”