Prompt: After accidentally setting a forest fire, a retired ballet dancer wakes up in a strange house

Courtesy of Jay Sacher’s The Amazing Story Generator

Nicola tread lightly over the deep leaf litter. She carried herself with a dancer’s poise even after all these years. A mourning pigeon burst from the ground cover, startling her, and her arm flung up in a graceful curve, fingers outstretched, then curling into a wistful wave. She still dreamed of flying.

It was Nichole, of course. Her mother had insisted that an exotic name would be more attractive on playbills and marquees. As a girl, Nichole loved the idea. As a rebellious teenager, she was reasonably certain her name wasn’t the source of her fame. But it was too late by then.

Around the trail’s curve, she was stopped by a fallen tree. Her hand fell to her hip. She rubbed against the old familiar pain. The congenital dysplasia that eroded her bones until she could no longer dance, no longer walk. The doctors insisted she shouldn’t feel anything with the titanium skeleton that supported her now. They said the pain was imaginary, in her head…a ghost, like amputees who still feel their missing limbs.

She crouched and pushed up, jumping easily over the tree, arms and legs outstretched in a grande jetée, landing in a glisée and turning into a pirouette. Ah, how she missed the stage. Heat raced from her core, shooting out through her arms and legs. She moaned and clenched her fists, swinging around until she hit the nearest sapling. Sparks flew around her, and the dry leaves underfoot began to snap and curl as they burned. Nichole ran…

Note: This actually took me by surprise, because I had thought of a fantasy-style version, where Nichole placed her hands on the tree and her anger flowed out in flames. Where did the science-fiction skeleton come in?!

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And so, with a loving heart, I offer you

Namaste

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

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Prompt: Sacrifice, or The Elements of Life

Thanks to Elwira Pawlikowska for permission to use her darkly beautiful “Fantasy Pond”!

We’ve dreamed each other our whole lives.

Well, I think I’m real, and Heilewisa thinks she’s real.

We can’t both be, can we?

We better be.

I can’t save her if we’re not.

I begged her not to go to the Dark Temple. She’d whispered the legends to me at night just as her older brothers and sisters had whispered them to her, cuddled together under thin blankets, shivering in the cold with only moonlight through the tiny open window of their mud-and-thatch house.

No one made their way through the Deadwood to the long-abandoned temple with any hope of return. If they had hope at all, it was that their sacrifice would be payment enough for whatever they were driven to beg the angry, old gods.

Waking up each morning has been agony, abandoning her on her journey. Each night, I pushed myself to go to sleep as early as possible to find out how she had survived the day.

Last night, she had reached the Dark Temple and waited for me there. Together, we walked around the fetid moat, full of bone-white lotus flowers and the broken remains of statues and pillars that had once graced the temple’s entrances.

“Look.” Heilewisa pointed to the six statues that remained, as if guarding the temple steps. “They carry sacrifices.”

I peered across the still, black water. The pair of statues at the bottom of the steps held urns. The next pair beyond them held bowls. And the pair at the top of the steps held…lumps? My brows drew together and I turned to Heilewisa in confusion.

She laughed, a sound of sharp surprise with no joy, that rang across the water and bounced off the stones. “The elements of life. Water in the urns, grain in the bowls, earth in the hands.”

“Heilewisa, this is crazy. You can’t cross the water. It looks…wrong.”

She gazed at it in silence, then pointed to the floating lotus. “Look, they live. I’ll be all right. I have to.”

We hugged each other in desperation, and I felt the tug of morning pull me out of her tight embrace.

And now, look at her. Floating in the black water, small ripples flowing out from her body, as if there might still be some movement left in it. Some life. But the color has already leached from her skin, her hair, her lips. Her gown looks like it’s been eaten by moths, or acid. Will her skin look the same soon?

Hot tears burn down my cheeks. Heilewisa knew the risk. She thought she had no choice. I do. I can wake up. She’s just a dream. That’s what everyone would say. Anyone. But what if she’s not? What if I am? And what if I can save her?

Heilewisa’s last words had remained with me all day, running around and around in my mind. The elements of life. Water, food, earth. Something was missing.

I turned back to the Deadwood, keeping my eyes on Heilewisa as long as possible. I’ve never tried to bring anything with me in my dreams, but I’ve always had whatever I was wearing, or carrying in a pocket. Now I pulled the wool scarf from around my neck. It was only a few steps away from the water to find a long dead branch on the leaf-littered ground. I wrapped the scarf around the end of the branch and reached into my pocket for the lighter I’d swiped from my stepfather’s dresser. Rubbing my thumb across the top, I set the lighter to its strongest flame. Flick, I pressed down. Nothing. Flick. Nothing. My heart leaped into my throat. I had tried it at home. I knew it would work. It had to.

With the side of my thumb, I pressed against the top of the lighter one more. Flame shot up two inches, singing my thumb as I jerked it away. Holding it close to the wool, I ran the flame around and around, until the scarf caught fire and I held a torch above my head.

Now what? I eyed Heilewisa and the statues. How did I use the element of fire to save her? The reflections of the statues waved in the water, as if they were bending closer to the surface. Bringing their offerings closer. Water. Food. Earth.

Fire. I smiled, feeling the fierce grin stretch the skin tight across my face. Reaching out with the flaming torch, I lowered the torch to the black water. As it touched, it began to hiss and sizzle, but the flame didn’t go out. It leaped across the water, sweeping across the lotus, across Heilewisa, racing toward the statues bearing the other elements of life temple steps.

I threw the torch on the black water and waded in toward Heilewisa. She rolled over in the water and folded up, choking and coughing. I grabbed her around the chest and started pulling her away from the temple, back to the shore. The fire raged behind us. I dragged her out of the water and dropped to the ground, holding her tight. Her skin and hair remained bone-white, bleached of their color, but she was breathing, shuddering in my arms.

She opened her eyes and stared up at me, then across the water to the flame roaring over the Dark Temple. The statues’ arms were raised, their tributes, their sacrifices, pouring into the flames.

“Sweet Rhea, what have you done?”

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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	1 hour, interrupted
September word count	4,206

Prompt: What price magic? Part 3

 …Continued from Part 2

I nodded and shook his hand, pressing into it a few of Suphora’s and my hard-earned coins from my honest work in the market.

I found Suphara surrounded by kind women, who dried her tears and brushed out her hair, braiding it into the long coils they once again wrapped around her delicate neck. I went to the baker and bought the rest of his day-old bread to share with them, to thank them for mothering her for a little while.

That night, we curled up together by the fire, and I held both her hands together in mine. “Suphara, why did you tell the medico you never breathed the poison smoke? You told me the first night we met about how the infidels burned your village and your parents died from breathing the smoke after they brought you here.”

She began to cry. “I didn’t want those memories, so I used them for my magic.” She sniffled and pulled a hand free to wipe her eyes and nose on her sleeve.

“I don’t understand,” I complained, thinking about her magic. “How do you use memories for your magic?”

She sat up and rested her hands on her knees. “There is always a price for magic,” she said. “Each time I use magic, it costs a memory.

“Every time? What do you mean, it costs a memory?”

“I don’t remember that memory anymore. That’s why I separate my memories every day, into those I want to keep, and those I want to use.”

I remembered her hands moving the first time we met, and suddenly it all fell into place. But… “Then you should not use so much! You'll use up all your memories!”

She dropped her head and said softly, “It doesn’t matter. I don’t have that many good memories to keep. Better to use them for magic that helps make our lives better, don’t you think?”

Exhausted by the day, we lay down. She rested her head on my shoulder and fell asleep. I still held her hand and listened to her breathing. Before I fell asleep, I whispered, “It’s okay. I’ll remember them for you, then.”

To be continued?

Dogs in house:	Houdini
Time writing	~1 hour
June word count	9,012

Prompt: What price magic? Part 2

 …Continued from Part 1

And just like that, we were inseparable. Suphara was eight, and her parents had brought her into the city last spring, after the infidels burned their village. But they had both inhaled too much of the poison smoke, and they died when the air turned cold a few months later.

She’d been on her own for over a year when we met. From that day, we took care of each other, often sleeping in the basement where we first met, roaming all over the city. Suphara convinced me not to steal, because she could always produce food on demand, or light a fire. She never seemed reluctant to do so, and I never gave a second thought to her magic. Soon the market owners began to trust I was no longer a thief, and they paid me to run errands and help them. I forgot all about what she said when we first met. If anything, I remembered the pomegranate.

But she told me about her parents the first night we lay together by the fire I built and she lit, as we shared stories for hours before we fell asleep, hands entwined. So I was puzzled when, some months later, we waited in line to see one of the infrequent visiting medicos who setup camp in the market square and freely offered their services to any in need.

When it was our turn, Suphara clutched my hand so tightly it hurt. I told the medico we were brother and sister, and could I stay to comfort her? He nodded gravely as he unwrapped her long braids from around her neck. They draped almost to the floor, and her skin was pale and wrinkled from their weight. As he listened to her heart and to her breathing, he frowned. “My child, have you been exposed to the poison smoke of the infidels from across the sea? I fear I hear it in your lungs, and there is an irregular pattern to your heartbeat.”

Suphara said, “No, sir. I have not.”

I started and pulled my hand free of hers in confusion. “What are you talking about? You told me they burned your village!”

She paled and jumped up, running from the room with her braids trailing behind her. I ran to the doorway and saw one of the market women grab her into a tight embrace as Suphora sobbed on her shoulder. Turning back to the medico, I asked, “Why would she not tell you the truth?”

He shrugged. “Memory can be a funny thing. Sometimes, when memories are too terrible, it’s better to forget them. But this is dangerous for her. She must never take even one more breath of the poison smoke, or it could kill her. She might not want to remember why, but she must remember that. Will you help her?”

Continued in Part 3…

Dogs in house:	Houdini
Time writing	~1 hour
June word count	8,975

Prompt: What price magic? Part 1

I was ten when I met Suphara. On the streets for three years already, I knew all the best hiding places and escape routes around the market. I was running away from fat old Bophat, who ran faster than you’d think he should, when I ducked under the city’s terra cotta water pipes and dropped into the basement of one of the Sepphir’s  abandoned warehouses.

But the basement wasn’t abandoned, and I rolled behind a support column, trying to breather silently though my lungs were begging for more air. I’d only gotten a glimpse of someone, and when I heard no noise, I finally leaned around the column for a peek.

A girl sat cross-legged on a woven mat. Her eyes were closed, her traditional braids were wrapped around her neck, and her hands were out in front of her. She held then both palm up, then turned her right hand over and pushed it to the side. Then her left hand turned over and pushed down almost to the ground. Her right hand flipped upright and lifted above her head, then slid to the left as far as she could reach without turning. What was she doing? I crept closer.

“I’m sorting memories,” she said quietly, and I was so surprised that I almost fell back on my rear end. I didn’t speak out loud, did I?

“No, but you think very loudly,” she said; and when she smiled, I fell in love. With a shake of my head, I tried to push that thought down somewhere where she wouldn’t hear it. While I was thinking about that, I finally heard what she had first said.

“Sorting memories?” I asked. “Why?”

She kept her eyes closed and her hands moving. I watched, fascinated.

“Because some I want to keep, and some I will use,” she said. Opening her eyes, she drew her hands together, fingertips cupped as if she held something. The air shimmered, and I squinted to see what she was doing. She opened her hands, and a pomegranate rested on her palm, large and red. My mouth watered at the sight.

“How did you do that?” I asked in wonder.

She laughed. “Magic, of course, silly.” She tore open the fruit and handed half of it to me. I scooted closer and pulled it out of her hand.

“Can you teach me,” I asked, sucking on a handful of the rich seeds. “That would be so awesome!”

Laughing again, she said, “I don’t think so. You either have magic or you don’t. If you don’t know about it by now, I don’t think you have it,” she said thoughtfully, spitting out a few pits.

She didn’t tell me the price then, and I was so excited about the pomegranate and the idea of magic, that I forgot what she said about sorting memories.

Continued in Part 2…

Dogs in house:	Houdini
Time writing	~1 hour
June word count	8,975

Prompt: painting with a curse on it, pink panties, chicken bones, several bottles of booze, a fake I.D., a bunch of matches

Cheryl stood in the center of the red design painted on the studio floor, considering the place where she’d devoted so much time and energy over the past two years. Looking down at the carrier tube under her arm, she thought about the painting rolled inside. Was it enough? It had to be. It was time to cast the curse.

With a shrug, she held the bottle of turpentine at arm’s length and tilted it upside down, walking toward the door. When the bottle was empty, she dropped it behind her without a backward glance.

Stepping over empty beer and liquor bottles, and an almost-artistic array of red Solo cups, she stopped next to the living room table and tipped over the last standing vodka bottle, watching the scant remains dribble across the table and drip onto the stained carpet. Empty pizza boxes and a KFC carton overflowing with bare chicken bones covered the low table.

Cheryl reached down and picked up a handful of bones, dropping them on the table and nodding as she studied them. She glanced up at Jonathan, sprawled motionless on the couch, and Carolyn, curled in the La-Z-Boy. “You really should have known,” she admonished them. “It’s all there in the bones.”

At the door, she picked up the fake ID Jonathan had delivered this afternoon. Studying it, she smiled. Looking back at him, she said with a laugh, “Really? Cherry Cotton? Funny, Jonathan. Hilarious.”

The name didn’t matter, only the coding on the magnetic strip. Magic didn’t work well on technology. Tucking it into her bra strap, she frowned. Her mother’s voice whispered in her ear, “The day always goes better with a matching bra and panties.” Black bra, pink panties. She hadn’t bothered with laundry this week. Sorry, Maman. I’ll have to take my chances.

She struck a wooden match on the side of the little box. Leaning down, she tucked it upright into the box as it sputtered down and set it in a puddle of vodka that stretched over from the living room carpet. Shouldering the art canister, she picked up her keys and swung them around.

Waiting to make sure the match did its job, she considered Jonathan and Carolyn once more. “Thanks, you guys. You’ve been a big help. Sorry I can’t stay. Places to go, masterpieces to steal, curses to cast, and all that.”

She shrugged as the matches sputtered and burst into flame. Turning on her worn heel, she pulled open the door, carefully locking it behind her. Looking down the hallway, she heard voices on the landing. Collateral damage?

She cocked her head to the side, considering. No, she could pass by them without being seen. She waved her hands from her head down to her feet, erasing herself from sight, and walked toward the stairs.

Dogs in House	Houdini, Brindle
Time writing	Too long!
April word count	13,701