Prompt: Catching a Ride (switch up the genre)

Write about obtaining transportation in at least two different genres, such as science fiction and epic fantasy.

Note: I originally planned to only post the prompt, to re-start this blog, which has waited in the wings while I dealt with some real life challenges. Thanks again to those of you who shared your thoughts, comfort and encouragement the past few weeks. But as soon as I thought of the prompt, I thought of two different scenes, so here they are…

1) Science fiction

Nila leaned into the shadows but avoided touching the brownstone walls. Lined with fibre, the building would report her location within seconds. Glancing around to make sure no one else was in the alley, she closed her eyes and scanned the nets. Brix could do it wide-eyed, and you’d never know he was accessing. No alarms. No reports on the open nets. Yet. She still had some time.

Darting to the end of the alley, she posted a ride price on the local net and held up her open left hand. An empty cab passed without slowing, uninterested in her offer. The next had a fare, but blinked his lights. He would have taken her offer, so she was on track. She pumped her fist in the air to thank him. As her fingers splayed open, another empty cab swerved to the curb and slid open its passenger door.

Nila leaned closer without entering the contract area and looked for the driver’s card. Quick scan. No alert. He was cool. She climbed in, and the door slid closed as the safety harness settled over her shoulders. “Canal Street. Start on the west side and head towards Chinatown. I’ll tell you when we get there.”

The cabbie nodded and moved into traffic. Not chatty. Good.

Would she know the place when she saw it? Would she remember? Brix took her before she was wired. She couldn’t even call up a saved memory. She’d have to trust her own brain. Ha. Fat chance of that.

“I have to” she muttered.

“What’s that,” the cabbie called back.

Nila leaned back against the seat. “Nothing,” she said. I have to find him.

#

2) Fantasy

Sabhan stood back on the platform, mesmerized by the swooping dragons. A young man climbed up the steps to her left and walked straight to the front edge. He scanned the air and jumped without hesitation. Sabhan’s heart leapt in her throat. Then she saw him a hundred lengths away, on the back of a red and brown dragon with long, slender wings. The dragon was circling a thermal while he got settled. When he picked up the long neck reins and pulled them tight, the dragon arched its neck and dove, picking up speed until it burst forward and flew quickly out of sight.

The platform guard strolled closer to Sabhan and smiled kindly. “First time, huh?”

She nodded tersely, staring out past the edge of the platform.

“You’ve got your cert, so you’ve practiced, but it’s still tough the first time. Don’t worry, you’ll do fine.” He moved closer to the platform.

“Don’t think about it too much. Just run and jump. They’ll get you. That’s what they’re here for.”

What if they miss? She didn’t say it aloud, but he read it in her wide eyes.

“Don’t worry,” he said again, and laughed. “We haven’t lost a dragon rider in over twenty years.”

Uncle Dajeq. Sabhan froze. What if the dragons let her fall, too?

Her uncle’s death had shamed her family. Crippled them. Noone would ride the dragons after that. And without the dragons, there was nowhere to go. Sabhan steeled herself, standing tall and clenching her fists at her sides.

“That’s a girl,” the guard said, seeing her move. “Don’t think. Just jump.”

Sabhan ran toward the edge of the platform, focused on the dragons flying on the farthest horizon, and jumped.

She fell. And then hit a solid wall. A moving wall. Carrying her up, up, past the platform, where the guard waved. The blue and orange dragon was the largest she had ever seen. Her legs could barely reach across its back. The reins rested against its raised neck scales, and Sabhan leaned forward to pick them up. She felt the dragon’s growl along the neck and across its back. Snatching her hands away, she wondered what to do.

How could she direct the dragon without the reins? Its wide, angled wings swept slowly up and down as it rode the thermal higher. Sabhan rested her hands on its back and felt the warmth beneath its delicate scales. She slid her right hand along its side, and it tilted to the right. Straightening, she slid her left hand from the base of the raised neck scales down toward her leg. The dragon banked to the left. Ahhh…

Sabhan leaned forward again. “All right. No reigns. We’ve got a long way to go.” Could the dragon hear her? Could it understand?

She pushed her hands forward and slid them evenly down the sides, then lifted her left hand and pushed her right toward her knee.

“Let’s fly.”

The dragon swept its wings back and dove, banking out of the thermal to the right, before it leveled out and stretched its wings wide, sailing the air currents toward Gessima.

#

And so, with a loving heart, I offer you

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love:
The light of the universe that shines within me recognizes
the light of the universe that shines within you.

Dogs in House	Houdini, Brindle
Time writing	~45 minutes
August word count	5604

Prompt: Fire in the belly

Fiery pain lanced through Drezhna’s belly, and she groaned, twisting and stretching her scales against the cool cave walls to find a more comfortable position. Her eyes dilated wide, she could easily see in the darkness. She stretched her neck and snapped up a bone she had been gnawing, sucking out the marrow to appease her fast-growing baby.

Rest easy, little one, Drezhna thought, hoping to sense a connection. Shouldn’t she be able to by now? If she didn’t soon, would she survive?

The last few weeks were the most dangerous, when the baby’s fire lit within the womb. Usually the prime mother would burrow down with her daughter and seal them within a cave until the baby was safely born. But Drezhna’s mother had fallen prey to one of the great metal beasts that invaded from the southern skies. Drezhna had sensed her mother’s silence as she returned from the deep breeding waters. She had fallen out of the sky and floated on the choppy surface, not caring for a long while if a sea creature attacked her there. Until she sensed her baby for the first time.

Why couldn’t she connect? Drezhna remembered floating in her own mother’s womb. Her mother’s gravelly voice sounding even in her thoughts. Her mother’s prime mother easing her out into the dark cave and leading her to the surface with a blast of fire clearing their path, melting the rock and soil covering them into a smooth tunnel.

Who would lead her baby away from her, up to the surface? If she could not do it, the babe would begin to devour her in its newborn hunger….

TBC?

                          

Dogs in House	Houdini
Time writing	20 minutes, interrupted
April word count	5,258

Prompt: Dragon chains

Darien held the baby dragon tenderly cupped in his hands. He blew warm breath over it, and its transparent blue wings fluttered open in response.

“It’s so tiny,” he marveled, studying its delicate head, slender neck, and tiny claws rasping against his palms. He blew another warm breath in its face, and it yawned, revealing needle-sharp teeth. Then it promptly fell over, fast asleep.

“Can I carry it with me?” He looked up hopefully. His Da looked over his shoulder from where he was threading dragon chains. He had five other newly hatched dragons in warmed goblets. He picked up each one, deftly threaded a slender length of gold chain through its nostrils, then tucked it back in its warm goblet, where it quickly settled down, indignity forgotten.

“You know it has to stay in here where it’s warm enough,” he said to Darien. “Here, bring it over. Do you want to thread it?”

Darien brought the tiny blue dragon over to the work bench which ran the length of the room. He examined the other hatchlings, red, gold, green, brown, and teal. He looked back at the blue, then up at his Da. “Do we have to? Maybe if I took good care of it—”

“No,” his Da sound firmly. He’d seen too many dragons grown out of control. “We have to. Would you want him to be killed when he’s grown?” He put his hands on Darien’s shoulders. “The chains don’t hurt them, kinder. But they’re enough to keep them under control. Now, do you want to thread it, or shall I?”

Darien clutched the blue closer to his chest for a moment, then set it on the counter. He’d watched his Da since he was old enough to climb up on a stepstool. He’d threaded the wooden dragons that Uncle Peyt carved for him a thousand times, so he took a deep breath and picked up a length of gold chain. A quick pinch around the dragon’s neck, a push and a tug on the chain…

“Well done!” Da said warmly. The blue sneezed and shook its head, and Darien wrapped his hands around it, pulling it back to the warmth of his chest.

“It’s all right,” he crooned. “All done now, and you can forget about it.”

The dragon shook its head, twirling the chain ends around his neck. Da picked up the ends and tied them in a loose knot behind its neck. “There ye go, little one. Safe as houses. Now, how about some cod liver oil?”

Darien wrinkled his nose, but the dragon perked up, as if it already understood. “Good boy,” he said. You can have mine whenever Ma gives it to me!”

Da laughed and poured a thick spoonful. The dragon reached out its pink curled tongue, then eagerly lapped up its treat, chain already forgotten.

Dogs in house	Houdini
Time writing:	30 minutes, interrupted
October word count:	21,040

Prompt: Chinese plant dragon

Thanks to Karolina for permission to use her beautiful image “Chinese Plant Dragon”!

Quilong’s curled horns twitched in the dark earth, reaching toward sunlight. His scales grew long and spiny along his slender neck and ridged back, pushing through the heavy dirt in search of water. Light. Life.

He dreamed. Men cut down the trees of his homeland, using the wood to build boxes to live in. They set fire to the wood as if they were gods! Or dragons. Quilong rumbled in his deep sleep, and the flame burned in his belly. He woke with the great desire to yawn wide and belch a swath of flame around him. He could not move in the frozen ground. It was not yet time. Still the flame burned, hotter and hotter until he thought it would roast himself from the inside.

The season turned. The sun warmed. The ice melted. Cold water seeped into the dark, frozen soil, around Quilong’s horns, his snout, his neck, his spiny scales. He pushed with his tail and felt the dirt loosen. It was time. The flame still burned. Would he burn the delicate roots before they were strong enough to thrive on their own? In his desire to be free, he almost didn’t care.

Now he dreamed with purpose. Seeds sprouting, first growth reaching up, unfurling, drinking in the earth’s bounty. He felt the thin roots stretching down from above, wrapping around his horns, tickling his ears, poking his eyes. Larger they grew, some grass, some rice, some trees. The thick tree roots pushed aside his spiny scales, pressing against his skin. He could move his whole tail now, and shiver all the way up his back to his ears. Soon. Soon.

The spring rains fell. The river flooded, pouring fresh water all over the land. It sank down into the soil, loosening, nourishing. Quilong could feel the plants growing all around him. It was time. He rose, every muscle straining to push his great body through the thick mud from the river’s flood.

His horns broke through, into the warm spring air, then his curled ears, listening to the songs of life repeating once again. And again. And again.

Quilong rose from the earth with a mighty roar. The hot flames burst from his snout in a fiery torch that lit the night sky. He shook himself free of the dirt, mud, roots that clung to his scales, stretching his wings wide and flapping them back and forth to build their strength. His tail lashed against the earth, scattering the signs of his upheaval, his hiding place.

The delicate grass trembled beneath his steps. The trees stretched their limbs toward him as he passed. Quilong stalked with angry purpose toward to homes of man. He reached the edge of the valley and climbed the mountain, half walking, half flying. At the top, he coiled around the peak and glared at the sight before him.

He had slept so long. Too long. The homes of man stretched across as far as he could see. He could not destroy them all. They belched black smoke into the skies. He could not defeat them all.

Quilong lay his head against the top of the mountain and the fire in his belly dimmed to nothing. He had failed. He could do nothing to protect his world from man.

He felt something tickle his chin. Quilong raised his head and looked down at the mountain peak. A single blade of grass quivered beneath him. Quilong watched it grow strong and true in the blazing sun. He felt a spark in his belly. With one last, long look at the world of man, Quilong turned and headed back down the mountain.

Time writing:	30 minutes
October word count:	12,277

Prompt: Waiting for the eggs to hatch

Thanks to AlexandraSemushina for permission to use her wonderful image, “Newborn”!

Padjelahk dozed in his worn, comfortable chair under the windows. The spell-frosted windows kept the winter chill from the nursery, but he appreciated the warmth of his fur-lined tunic nonetheless. His red reptilian skin suffered in the freezing winter months. It was one reason he had loved the nursery as a young skilmot, training under the wizened tutelage of the famous Master Korezhen. The dragon eggs had to be kept firepot-warm all year round.

Now he was the nursery master, and he waited with Brighrathet for the dragon sire’s first clutch hatching. Padjelahk remembered the day many years ago when Brighrathet clawed out of his own egg. At the memory, he chuckled.

What draws your laughter? Brighrathet’s deep, raspy voice sounded in his mind.

“Remembering your hatching,” Padjelahk said aloud. “You were the first pip out—”

Of course, Brighrathet preened.

Padjelahk laughed as he reached up to scratch Brighrathet behind his ears and along his wings. The red dragon stretched along the back of the chair, rumbling with contentment. He was too anxious to stay still for long, though. Soon he pushed up and flew over to the egg cauldron, wings fluttering with nervous energy.

Patient with the dragon’s excitement over his first clutch, Padjelahk smiled and climbed out of his chair to join him. He carefully examined the eggs in the cauldron, carefully warmed by the banked embers of thrushes underneath. Dragon eggs matched their sire in color; these were all a deep red. Their hatching panes were all opaque bright blue, indicating the pips would emerge at any time. Padjelahk and Brighrathet would stay in the nursery until all but the last egg hatched. The pips would attack that egg, crushing the shell with their tiny, fierce claws and tearing apart the sole unhatched pip.

Why don’t they begin? Brighrathet asked with an irritated lash of his long, slender tail.

“You know they will soon enough. Are you ready to feed them?” Padjelahk teased. He knew Brighrathet had been hoarding piled of smoked meat to feed the newborn pips. They were more likely to gorge themselves to death than to starve, based on the mound beneath the corner nest.

Brighrathet blew out a thin stream of white smoke that curled up until he pushed through it, sending eddies down the scales along his neck. He hopped from one foot to the other. Do you think there’s not enough? Should I go get more?

Padjelahk laughed aloud, then froze. He heard the click of a cracking shell. He and Brighrathet watched closely to see which egg would hatch first. Ah-ha! He saw it. Padjelahk picked up the vibrating egg with a crack along one side. AS they watched, tiny claws pushed pieces of shell away, until the bright gold pip emerged.

“He’s got your strength,” Padjelahk praised, as Brighrathet blew smoke around the pip so it would know him. Padjelahk stroked its wings with a gentle claw, and the pip reached around and chomped down on his finger, holding onto its prey with all its newborn strength.

Brighrathet snorted with amusement and reared up, shooting a bright yellow flame into the air. He landed and cocked an eye toward Padjelahk, who was trying not to wince under the pip’s tiny but painful bite.

He’s got my teeth, too, and hunting skills, it seems. Brighrathet thought proudly.
 

Dogs in house	Houdini
Time writing:	30 minutes
October word count:	10,980

Prompt: Raising the dead to save the living

Thanks to Ekaterina for permission to use her beautiful image “Raising of dragonlich”!

Katerran sat cross-legged on the cold stone, where he had meditated and fasted for four days and nights. Not that there was any difference in the dark gray skies. The damp drizzle had long since soaked through his long white hair and baelsplen cloak, despite the clothier’s claims of waterproofing. His heels rubbed sore against the worn leather of his boots.

No more sore than his bony rear end against the stone, he thought with a grimace, then schooled his mind back into the chants. The chants filled his mind and overflowed into his throat, his voice, croaking at first after long disuse before mellowing into a minstrel’s deep timbre.  He slowly rose to his knees, then stood tall, chanting as he held his arms straight out before him, calling the dragonlich fire.

Flickers of green and yellow flame ran along his arms and sparked between his hands, pooling in the air between. As the ball grew, he moved his hands slowly in the ancient forms, chanting the lifefire into this world. He felt the first tremor of weakness in his knees and sternly told himself it was merely from sitting in the damp cold for so long.

The ball grew too large to spin between his hands, and he flung his arms wide. It flew over the rock where he stood and drifted over the deep canyon. It cast enough light to see farther down than Katerran ever had before. Its reflection shimmered against the low, thick clouds that covered the world.

When he lifted his eyes to see it, he lost his balance and staggered back, desperately holding onto the chant and the sigils his hands drew without ceasing. Pushing forward to regain his balance, Katerran felt the blood begin to flow from his nose and his ears. He shook his head to clear it, and bright red drops splattered across his tunic, disappearing into the black fabric.

The chant changed yet again. The flame grew larger, stretching, thinning. Taking shape. He had not expected it to be so beautiful. Thick bones stretched out into a ribcage, then spread across the air in long, wide wings. The neck grew longer as he watched in fascination, and for a moment, he forgot to chant. The delicate membranes flowing across the wings ripped and tattered. Horrified, Katerran continued the chant and wove sigils of strength and healing into his endless patterns in the air. He coughed violently, spasms clutching his chest, and more blood spat from his mouth onto the gray rock.

The dragonlich’s head formed, long and narrow, with curved, twirled horns close to its head. It opened its mouth in a silent roar, exposing long, terrible fangs. It writhed around the fire burning inside. Its legs grew, reaching down into the depths of the canyon to plunge thick claws into the ground. Katerran’s voice gave out with a final bloody cough. He dropped to his knees, still weaving the sigils of purpose, renewal, life.

The dragonlich lowered its head close to the rock where he knelt, head hanging limp, hands weakly moving. It turned its head to regard him with a fiery eye. Katerran rested his hands on his thighs and leaned back, intending to sit, but continuing until he lay on his side, head rolled against the stone to see the dragon. He tried to speak, but his voice was gone. He tried to move his hands, but he had no more strength to lift even a finger.

Was it enough? He had abandoned his oaths, his family, risked everything, given everything to bring the dragonlich to life. Would it save his world, or destroy it? The dragonlich’s lifefire blazed through its bones. Katerran blew out one last shuddering breath and through darkening eyes watched the dragonlich crouch down, wings spread wide, then leap into the air, spewing its lifefire into the dark gray skies.

                                 

Dogs in house	Houdini, Brindle
Time writing:	40 minutes
October word count:	5,660