Prompt: Prisoner of war, rapper, flight, plastic flowers

The screen by the door flickered to life. “CZ19374, report—”

“Black Ice, man. Ima here, all ears,” Charlie Zickman, known as Black Ice to thousands, or at least dozens of adoring fans on Lunar Station 7, tossed his playing cards in the air and leaned against the wall, arms crossed and fingers splayed in an illegal gang salute. He was never in a gang, but it looked cool, and it really pissed off the administration, so he used it all the time.

“CZ19374,” the implacable voice might have carried the slightest hint of irritation, which made Charlie smile. “Report to loading station three.”

Charlie sketched a middle-finger salute over his eyebrow and sat silently until the screen went dark. Loading station three? They were shipping him out. Where? He cued his neural implant to scan the news and alert him of anything that might be relevant while he packed his scant belongings into the cotton duffel they allowed each prisoner.

One extra shirt, one extra pair of loose cotton pants, one thin paper journal and a nub of pencil, one copy of Haiku by Matsu Basho, tattered around every edge and dog-eared on most pages. A small portfolio with a handful of paper letters and photos. Not much to show for this two-year gig on Lunar 3, he thought bitterly.

His implant pinged for his attention. He sat on the bunk and scanned the search results. News on Earth, news on the Moon. Hey, he missed the Academy Awards again this year? Wait, backup. What was that? Ah, very interesting. But where did he fit in? Nothing to do but go along for the ride, of course.

He picked up his duffel and stood in front of the door. “Black Ice ready to report to loading station three.”

The door dissolved and he stepped out, following the lighted path than led him to the loading station. He was careful to step on the floor lights – if he deviated more than two steps, the hallway would become electrified and he’d be knocked on his ass. He’d quickly learned not to give the guards the satisfaction.

Dogs in house	Houdini
Time writing	~25 minutes
January word count	13,762

Prompt: Searching for neutral ground

Thanks to one of my favorite artists, Artur Rosa, for permission to use his lovely, "Archipelago 27"!

Makim stood motionless in the shelter of the trees and watched the figure walking along the shore. If she hadn’t recognized her mother’s form the moment she appeared, Makim would have fired a warning shot by now.

As it was, she kept a vigilant watch in case any others from the Archipelago appeared. There was no one else she would hesitate to shoot, including her mother’s mate. Makim refused to call him father.

Makim was on sentry, for the Exiles never knew when the Archipelago might send troops to sweep the forest. A guard stood watch on each port entry along the twenty-mile shoreline, and a sentry leader held central position to relay alarms from any one. Makim’s shift was two days gone, three to go. Mostly it was boring and tedious, watching flocks of fist-sized black-winged pleekots fly across the cloudless sky.

Her camoshield jumpsuit rippled colors tight across her skin, reflecting the forest behind her, the ocean before her, and the silver sheen of the two moons above. She gripped her forearms, taking comfort in the slender blades resting under the camo fabric. Her long dark hair swung loose, hiding her face as the chill north shore breeze swept past.

Makim looked out at the luxurious mansions that framed the closest island fortresses of the Archipelago. Some looked like mirrored rings around the steep, impregnable slopes of the tiny islands that thrust like bullets out of the ocean. Some rested on top, perfectly balanced no matter the fierce winds that swept across the water. Makim grew up looking inland, dreaming of the ultimate luxury -- freedom.

Looking down, she saw her mother had crossed the sand and was struggling to climb the rocky dunes. Narrowing her eyes, she turned again and studied the shoreline and forest, searching for any other guards who might sound the alarm. They would shoot first and ask questions later. But Makim had a question that burned in her chest day and night. She left the trees’ shelter and headed toward the steep dune. Finally she would have the chance to ask her mother.

Why?

Dogs in house	Houdini, Brindle
Time writing	25 minutes, interrupted
January word count	3718

Prompt: tourist, pregnant, member of the wedding, gun

Note: First post using another Christmas gift, The Storymatic prompt-generating card collection.

Stefanie cut open the heavy envelope and slid out the thick invitation package. Trust Nikky to go all out. When she’d Skype’d Stef to ask her to be a bridesmaid in her "destination wedding", Stef’s heart had sunk. No way could she afford to go to the moon.

“No, no, honey. Don’t worry about it. Daddy’s got us all covered. You, me, and Ginny. I told him I couldn’t get married without you guys. He’s such a grump. He asked if you were going on the honeymoon, too! I told him no, cause he was paying for you all to stay there for another week. I know how much you could use a vacation.”

Stef had dropped into her chair in shock. Three tickets to the moon might be like a movie outing for Nikky’s father, but she knew what a fortune it was in the real world.

“Darling, I can’t!”

Nikky waved her hand, brushing aside Stef’s objection. “Honey, please. It’s the last time it will just be the three of us. Please?”

Stef never could resist Nikki. No one could. And now here she was, in the courtyard lobby of the Marriott Tranquillitatis, gazing spellbound up at the clear dome and the view of Earth.

“They’re self-sealing.”

Stef startled, looking at the woman who had appeared beside her, gazing up. She threw her arms around the newcomer.

“Ginny! Oh my gosh! Can you believe this? Self-sealing?”

Ginny leaned into her side and they both looked up again. “Yeah, Bryant was telling me all about before I left.”

“How’s my favorite godson?”

“Jealous. He explained how all the windows have a liquid center that makes them self-sealing in case of a breach. He was trying to make me feel better about coming here.”

Stef glanced down, then grabbed Ginny’s arms. “Is that a—”

“Baby bump.” Ginny blushed. “Yes. Yes it is. Figured I’d surprise you and Nikki up here. This will be my last travel for awhile.”

Stef hugged her again, and they linked arms, heading for the café. They were just getting seated when the shot rang out, and the loud crack of glass sounded throughout the dome.

Dogs in house	Houdini, Maize, Malachi
Time writing	20 minutes, interrupted
January word count	1,506

Prompt: Reluctant Siren

Thanks to Katarina (Zirine on deviantart) for permission to use her stunning image, “Siren”!

Mirenka hides in the watery depths of the graveyard she has made. It is the least she can do, to keep company with the remains of all those she has drawn to their deaths. And always, always, she fights the compulsion.

Feeling the wake of a boat moving on the surface far above, she holds tight to the mast of a ship she sunk a hundred years before, shaking her head from side to side, her silver hair streaming around her pale skin. She opens her mouth in a silent scream of frustration. Sorrow. The unbearable pressure builds in her chest until she thinks it might burst through her skin. Would the song flow out with her blood, thinning in the water until it disappeared forever?

Her body fights her will. Even as she clings tight to the ancient wood, her tail thrashes for freedom. Her fingers lose their grip, slide up the length of the mast to the top knob, squeeze around that as her tail undulates up and down, pulling her toward the surface. Her nails scrape the wood until she is free. Her body ignores her will, flies up toward the surface.

With her first breath, the song breaks free. Silver tears reflect in the moonlight, leaving traces of her sorrow on her skin. In this, she is as beautiful as she is dangerous, even to herself. The poison in her tears burns into her skin, silver designs that cover her brow, her cheeks, her breast, and curl down her belly to her tail. The thick scales of her tail are as impervious to her sorrow as to her will.

Her song soars over the ocean waves, but the boat is too far away. She smiles. Hard won triumph. Her head falls back and she floats, the cool waves washing her tears away. She prays to the moon. Begs her silver goddess.

Free me.

Bathing in the moon’s silver light, she opens her arms wide and lets her body sink below the waves…

Dogs in house	Houdini, Maize, Malachi
Time writing	~25 minutes, interrupted
January word count	1152

Prompt: City Nightscape, or Finding the old, lost in the new

Thanks to Abdel for permission to use his beautiful image, "Titel-title"!

Ben ran his hands over the flight panel and checked the approach schedule one last time. He submitted his approval to the controller and leaned back in his pilot’s seat. Snorting with derision at the thought of this as piloting, he cleared the window so he could watch their approach.

Prague was still one of his favorite metros. You could hardly make out the old city tucked low against the river and surrounded by towering skyscrapers. As one of the oldest metros, Prague’s central towers weren’t as high as later developments. Ben’s home base in Dallas, for instance, didn’t have a single tower less than 150 floors. But he preferred Prague’s chaotic mishmash of old and new.

The hovercraft reached the entry point on their flight path and Ben felt the brief stomach flip he always did as the Martine Drive suspended their forward motion. The large round engines on either side of the craft rotated from forward-facing to upward-facing, and they began to descend from their hi-atmo cruising altitude into the city airspace.

Ben loved night landings into metros. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone else – they’d think he was being ridiculous – and it did make him feel like a kid again, watching his granddad pilot one of the old airjets. Now, that was piloting. Hands on controls the whole flight. Sure, Granddad had plenty of help, but he was still the real pilot. Ben felt cheated of that experience. By the time he was old enough, the airjets had been replaced by the automated craft like this one, doubled in speed and size. Like the metro towers themselves, everything bigger was better.

Leaning his forehead against the cold glass, Ben peered down through the moonlit towers and tried to identify the familiar nightscape of the old city. The Einstein Tower—currently the largest residential building in New Europe—loomed in the metro center, with its lighted crown piercing the sparse louds. Below it, Ben could barely see the glint of the Vltava as it meandered through the metro. Following its path, he found the broad S-curves that framed the old city. Even the lights of the stumpy buildings were different, casting a yellow glow like ancient lamplight instead of the cold blue and white gleam of the tall towers.

Ben heaved a sigh in time with the engines’ shift into final descent. Staring up at the towers that now loomed over the hovercraft, he rolled his forehead on the glass once more, searching the darkness that was old Prague. There—there was St. Vitus Cathedral. If he had enough time between loads, he would go light a candle. Maybe step into one of the booths. He always had something to offer up for a priest to give him a penalty. Never the real thing though. He was still working that out with God himself. If he got it right with God, maybe he could go home someday and make it right with Granddad.

Dogs in house	Houdini, Brindle
Time writing:	~40 minutes, including research
October word count:	11,134