Category: Fiction

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Mark of the Magicka

Kip gazed up at the iron gates in front of her. The entrance to the Magicka was forbidding, but deceptively so: the metal was twisted into an intricate design that left many holes large enough for a man to climb through. Upon closer inspection, however, Kip noticed that the air in the space between the bars faintly glowed blue, and her heart beat a little quicker when she imagined what might happen to the fool attempting to breach the gates.

“State your name and business,” a low voice called out. Kip looked around, but she saw no guard house or window in the smooth walls. In fact, from what she could see through the gates, the courtyard itself was deserted.

Summoning her courage, she stepped forward and squared her shoulders. “My name is Kip. They sent me here from Olstrick.”

“We don’t have room for every orphan to come begging for shelter. If Olstrick is full up, they shouldn’t be sending you here. Move along, boy!”

Kip frowned and crossed her arms over her flat chest. “Beg pardon, but I’m a girl.” Sister Kay said in a few months I’d be bleeding, and then I’ll be a woman. “I was sent here because…they don’t want…someone…like me.” She raised her left hand to show a large, dark circle on her palm.

Silence.

Kip lowered her hand slowly and bit her lip. Her palm still itched something fierce, with the new skin having just begun to grow back after the elders at Olstrick had branded her as a witch, and their voices still echoed in her mind: Mark her before she marks the rest of us. She’ll grow up to be a monster, just like her mother.

Still no response from inside the keep. If the Magicka didn’t let her in, she had no idea where she would go. “Hello?” She called.

The blue glow between the iron bars grew brighter, and with a click, the gates swung open. A broad-shouldered man with dark eyes and an even darker beard stood behind the gates. He wore black leather armor with a silver crescent moon emblazoned on the chest, but his thick-as-logs arms were bare, save a ring of symbols and animals tattooed around each of his biceps. Kip’s jaw dropped.

Photo taken by enderFP

“Well, I’m not going to wait all day,” the man said.

She didn’t need to be asked twice. She was inside the gates before they could change their mind about her.

Once inside the courtyard, she saw that it was not at all deserted as she first thought; in fact, there were so many tents and tables set up that she realized there was a full bazaar in the middle of this castle keep. She looked back at the gates and wondered why she couldn’t see it from the outside.

The man followed her gaze. “It’s enchanted, boy,” he growled. “Lots of things in this place are. You’ll get used to it.”

Kip craned her neck up at him and frowned again. “I’m not a boy,” she insisted, but he was already walking through the marketplace stalls, and she had to race to keep up with him.

The marketplace was a maze of vendors and wares, and Kip lost her bearings after the first few turns. Every once in a while, the large man would stop and point out different vendors in the stalls. As he mentioned each person and what they did, the tattoos on his arms began to shift and turn as if in response. Kip began to get dizzy watching the tattoos, but they were so fascinating and intricate, she couldn’t look away.

The man stopped walking abruptly and turned to face Kip, who nearly collided into him. He bent over to look her straight in the face.

“Listen, boy,” he warned, “I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing, but whatever is, quit it. My spirits haven’t been this talkative since I got my first mark, and it’s driving me nuts.” His inky eyes were angry.

Photo by enderFP

She shifted her gaze back to his tattoos. They had all stopped moving, but the creatures had shifted so that they were looking directly at her. She reached out to touch them. “What are they?”

In the blink of an eye, he grabbed her wrist. “First rule of the Magicka, boy: never touch another wizard’s mark. Not without permission.”

His hold tightened. Her palm began to burn, as if the fiery brand was pushing into her flesh all over again. Tears came to her eyes, but she refused to cry out.

“Rory!” A woman’s voice rang out sharply from the crowd. The man released Kip’s hand, and the burning immediately ceased. He dropped to one knee in a reverent bow.

Kip looked up and saw the most beautiful woman in the world standing before them. The woman’s long auburn hair was pulled into a loose braid, and she wore a flowing azure tunic with vertical slits all the way up the side, and as she moved, Kip caught glimpses of a large, ornate tattoo of roses on the woman’s ivory skin. As she looked into the woman’s deep blue eyes, Kip was overcome with awe, and she, too, dropped to her knees.

“Rise, child,” the woman said, with a gentle voice. Kip stood up, but kept her gaze to the ground. “Has Rory here been bothering you?”

Kip glanced sidelong at Rory, still kneeling before the woman, his gaze also averted. “No, ma’am. I shouldn’t have tried to touch his mark. It’s the first rule of the Magicka.”

The woman laughed. Were those bells tinkling, or was that just her voice? “A quick learner, this one.” She placed her hands on Rory’s broad shoulders and leaned forward to kiss the top of his head. “Be at ease, my champion. Arise, and accompany us. We shall both take the child where she needs to go.”

Rory rose, and Kip could see that all the anger in his face had disappeared. He grunted and walked ahead of them through the crowd.

The woman turned to Kip and held out her hand. “I’m Lady Rose.”

“Kip,” she responded as she shook the lady’s hand tentatively. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Ask away,” said Lady Rose, her eyes scanning the crowd as they navigated around the stalls.

“These tattoos — the marks — what are they?”

Lady Rose smiled. “It’s the mark of the Magicka. We all have them inside us. When you embrace your own abilities and follow our ways, the marks rise to the surface and show themselves to the world.”

Kip looked at the circle burned into her palm. “But…why would you want to reveal that?” Tears came to her eyes as she remembered the angry faces of the men who wielded that brand.

“It’s true that there are many in the world who fear us,” Lady Rose said gently as she took Kip’s dirty, scarred hand into her own. “But there are also those who love us, for we provide great services. We use our abilities to help the crops grow, to solve problems…and to heal.” She opened Kip’s hand, revealing new, smooth skin, with no sign of any scar.

Rory turned around in time to see Kip’s eyes grow large in amazement. He chuckled, and for the first time, Kip felt like Rory was beginning to acknowledge her as a human being. “Folks around here are grateful for what we do, and these marks show them who we are.” With a wink, he pointed to a small building at the edge of the courtyard with several scantily clad women draped around the entrance. “The tattoo means I get all their services for free.”

Lady Rose loudly cleared her throat, and Rory quickly shut his mouth and turned back around, leading them at last to the tower entrance. At the doors, he bowed to them both. “Welcome to the Magicka, boy,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll see you tomorrow, for your first lesson.” And with that, he wandered back towards the front gates.

Photo by alyssagoesbang

Kip noticed that the roses on the lady’s side were undulating, growing all the way up her back and entwining her arms. They were so realistic, Kip thought she might prick herself on one of the thorns. She grew dizzy watching the roses bloom and fade in rapid succession.

Lady Rose turned to Kip and cupped her face with both hands. “You haven’t even learned what magic is and already you’re tapping into some of the strongest sources of energy. With the right guidance and enough training, you could easily become one of the most powerful mages in four worlds.” She leaned over and kissed Kip on the forehead. “But for now, Kip,” she murmured, “Go inside. Find your room. We will start your training tomorrow.”

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge comes from Brad McDonald, who writes:

The tattoo means I always get their services for free.

If you’ve been reading along, you know that I decided to put a little twist on this challenge and create a challenge of my own! I wasn’t flooded with responses, but the ones I did get were really great! Much thanks to alyssagoesbang, enderFP, and Tara Roberts (whose tattoo unfortunately didn’t make it into the story, but was awesome nonetheless). They are really beautiful, and I loved the stories that went with each one.

I challenged Runaway Sentence (again! woohoo!), who answered it with a surprising twist here.

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Drifter

“You’ve done it again, Kelly.”

Startled, Kelly looked up from the magazine he was reading.

Pettigrew stood at the door of the cockpit, arms crossed. “Every time you have been on watch this week, you’ve managed to get us off course.” He reached over and grabbed the magazine from Kelly’s greasy hands. “What the hell has got you so distracted?”

Kelly started to protest, but it was too late. “It’s nothing, just…a magazine I picked up when we were docked at New Mercury.”

Pettigrew thumbed through the dog-eared pages. It had only been five days since their stopover at New Mercury, but Kelly had clearly read it cover to cover several times over. With months at a time between ports, most crewmen considered any new reading material a lifeline to stave off the boredom, but this magazine was more worn than most after five days; it looked like it had been been through the wash and then some. And there weren’t even any naked pictures! He tossed it back to Kelly. “Well, stop reading and look to your station. We’re drifting towards a supernova, and Cap’n will be pissed if she has to burn another wormhole just to fix your stupid mistake.”

Photo taken by the Chandra X-Ray telescope
Kelly’s eyes grew wide at the mention of a supernova, and he began to busy himself with the computers at the helm.

Pettigrew snickered and went below.

Kelly had never meant to end up in space. When he was young, while all the other children were playing Cops & Aliens, he had dreamed of staying on Earth and opening his own ice cream shop. He loved ice cream — the real kind, not the stuff they feed you in space.

But before Kelly was old enough to tell anyone about his dream, Da had gotten a promotion and shipped off to Cerberus to oversee the uranium mines. And then Ma had gotten sick and died before Da’s first message even made it back home. Da had sent for him immediately, but the trip from Earth to Cerberus took longer than expected, and by the time he saw Da again, Kelly had grown into a young man. Da had been able to tell right away that Kelly would never make it on the inside of a mine, so he had immediately signed Kelly up to be an engineer on a Runner — mid-sized ships that delivered goods from one planet to another. “You can go anywhere in the universe, m’boy,” he’d said, thumping Kelly on the back. “Who wants to stay on a dingy ol’ planet, anyhow?”

Kelly never was able to tell his da that he hated space.

A warning light flashed on the console in front of him. Kelly sighed and moved his hand to the controls to pull the ship out of light speed. With luck and a little bit of finesse, he could do it slowly enough not to wake the Cap’n.

He really didn’t want to wake the Cap’n.

He moved the throttle ever so gently, but halfway down, the lever stopped. He gave it a little more pressure, but it didn’t budge. He crouched under the console to investigate the problem.

“What the…Kel-LY!!!”

Kelly jerked to attention so quickly that he banged his head on the console. He winced.

A short, stocky girl stood a few inches away, her short hair sticking every which way and her face bright red with anger.

“C-c-cap’n Rowan,” Kelly stammered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Well of course you didn’t mean to wake me, idiot,” Cap’n Rowan sneered. “What in the Seven Sisters of Pleiades do you think you are doing to my ship?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Kelly objected. “I just–”

“No, you’re right. You’re a moron. A scab that keeps growing back. I took you on against my better judgment because your daddy owns the biggest mining business in ten systems, but you don’t seem to have any of your daddy’s sense, do you?” Her face started to turn purple, and she poked him in the chest repeatedly for emphasis.

“I-I-I, there was gum–”

“I don’t give a flying turd what your excuse is this time. You’ve fallen asleep at the helm more times than I can count, and now Pettigrew tells me that you’ve gotten distracted again reading some stupid magazine.” She leaned down and picked up the magazine. “What is this rag, anyhow?”

“Just a–”

Cap’n Rowan’s eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the cover. “Gelato Companion? What kind of a pervert are you, Kelly?” She leafed through the pages quickly. “Chrissake, there’s not even any naked pictures!”

She stopped with a sudden realization. “Oh my god. This is something you really love, isn’t it, Kelly?” she said slowly.

Kelly swallowed.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice got sickeningly sweet. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have treated you this way. I would have just done this.” She carried the well-worn magazine to the trash bin and threw it in. With a push of a button, it was incinerated.

Stifling back tears, Kelly busied himself with the controls at the console. But Cap’n Rowan was back in his face. No matter which way he turned, the little woman was inches away. “Aww, are you going to cry? Is the pansy-ass gelato-eating crybaby going to cry? Do your fracking job, Kelly. Get us to where we need to go. Because as soon as we get there, I’m throwing your ass off the ship.”

Something in him snapped. He knew he wouldn’t see his da again, but he didn’t care. The supernova loomed large on the monitor, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be somewhere, anywhere, away from space. He reached down to the throttle and pushed it as high as he could go. Faster than light speed, straight into the supernova.

She was still shouting at him, but he didn’t hear her anymore. Everything was moving so slowly. Pettigrew running in, diving for the wormhole switch; Cap’n Rowan looking scared, for once. And then light. And heat. So much heat.

And then cold.

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge came from Carrie, who writes:

drift into trouble

My challenge went out to Angela Alvarez, who posted her awesome response here.

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Straw Into Gold

They call me Rumpelstiltskin.

I’m telling you that up front, because for a very long time, people could never remember my name. And when I finally could get someone to say my name out loud, I ended up becoming villified by the media for centuries. Never mind the fact that I took a poor girl and elevated her to the richest and most powerful position in the country. Never mind that I brought the kingdom from the brink of financial ruin into economic prosperity. They always forget that point when they tell the story; they like to focus only on the negative bits.

Maybe it’s time I got to tell my side of the story. Maybe you won’t be so quick to judge next time.

It all started when I was a stupid teenager. I was exploring the caves near my house and stumbled upon a pile of old, discarded spinning wheels, probably from The Burning Times (a few generations ago, when the king ordered all the spinning wheels and spindles in the kingdom to be burned. I never could figure out why someone would want to destroy such an important tool of industry, just on the off chance your daughter might be hurt using it. That king had eliminated a major export: fine cloth. The economy had begun to take a nose dive from there, and the kingdom was now heavily in debt. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face!).

On the back of the heap, one spinning wheel stood out that looked to be not as broken as the rest. The wood was still in good condition after all these years, and all the parts were still intact.

And then I noticed something glittering on the bobbin. Gold thread!

I rummaged through the rest of the heap for hours, but couldn’t find any more. Still, even this small bit of gold was more than I had seen in my short lifetime; I moved the fly wheel back and forth, watching the gold gleam on the bobbin. There were a few tufts of grass stuck to the orifice, which I tried to pull off, but they did not come off so easily. Instead, the fly wheel seemed to pull the grass through the orifice right onto the bobbin, transforming it into gold right in front of my eyes.

With the sun already beginning to set, I wasted no time. I strapped the entire spinning wheel to my back and returned to my house, imagining how excited my family would be when I showed them this unusual object.

To my dismay, nobody recognized me when I came home. No matter what I did or said, my family and neighbors treated me like a complete stranger — and nobody in town liked strangers. I was beaten and left for dead by the side of the road, with my spinning wheel still strapped to my back.

I was discovered the next day by an old wise-woman who had been cast out of the town years ago after being accused of witchcraft. She took pity on me and brought me to her home in the middle of the woods. It was she who told me that I should never have put my hands on such a powerful magical item. “You’ve probably been cursed with anonymity,” she informed me as she nursed me back to health. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before.”

I sat up in bed. “You have? Is there any cure? Should I destroy the spinning wheel?”

She chuckled. “The previous owners obviously couldn’t destroy it. What makes you think you can?”

“Then what should I do? How do I get my life back?”

Her withered face turned thoughtful. “If you can find someone who will remember your name and say it out loud, the curse should be broken.”

“Then do it. Say my name.”

“What is it, dear?”

“It’s Rumpelstiltskin.”

“I’m sorry, what? I couldn’t hear you.”

“Rumpelstiltskin.”

We went back and forth like this for several minutes, until she finally shook her head. “I think the curse is too strong for me. The second after you tell me your name, I forget it. You’ll have to find someone who is really stubborn and has a really strong motivation for remembering your name.”

The wise-woman let me stay with her, and in return I helped her around the house and the garden. Knowing I was stuck with the spinning wheel, I decided to put it to work for me. I learned how to spin straw into gold. I never spun too much, but we were able to afford plenty of fresh-milled corn and flour, and I kept us both well-clothed.

Every night after dinner, the wise-woman and I would sit in front of the fire and brainstorm ways to break my curse. Our plans got more and more elaborate as the months wore on, although we both knew that in all likelihood I would never find a cure.

Two winters after she found me, the wise-woman died. I stayed in her house, took care of her garden, but with every passing year, I became more and more determined to find someone who could speak my name out loud and break the curse. Every night I made plans, just like the wise-woman and I used to do, but I did so patiently and methodically. I learned how to read people and manipulate them through their greed. It’s amazing what people will do for gold. I should know.

I got my lucky break a few decades later, when a new miller moved into town. His eyes lit up the first time I brought my strands of gold to him as payment for flour. He invited me to dinner that night, and I knew he was hoping to foist his daughter off on me to get to my gold. I happily accepted.

His daughter was very beautiful, but she was not very bright. She paid more attention to her looks than her domestic duties; dinner that evening was terrible. She seemed frightened by her father and shy around me. When her father left us alone together, I tried to make her a little more comfortable.

“You’re not very attracted to me, are you?” I asked bluntly.

“Oh…uh–” she stammered, glancing nervously at her father’s silhouette in the garden.

“It’s okay. I know I’m no catch.” My beating so many years ago had left me with a disfigured face and one leg that had healed shorter than the other.

“My father thinks you would make a good husband.”

I peered closely at her. “Don’t you want to know my name first?”

“Oh, of course!” she answered, giggling. “But I know your name already, don’t I?”

“Do you? What is it?”

“It’s…um…it’s…I can’t remember.” Her bright blue eyes welled with tears. “But I’m sure I know it!”

I gently placed my hand on her arm, and she flinched slightly. She was perfect for my plans. “Don’t worry, my dear,” I said. “I don’t actually want to get married.”

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Would you like to be my friend instead?”

“Friend?” Her eyes widened. “I…suppose,” she answered. “As long as Father doesn’t mind,” she added, the nervous edge coming back into her voice.

That’s when I put my plan into action. I gave the miller’s daughter some of my golden strands and told her to keep them in her yarn basket. I visited often, bringing more and more golden strands, especially when I noticed her father taking them for himself. I set up the road block that caused the king to pass by the miller’s house that day, and I was the one who suggested to her that she start spinning by the road, with her shiny golden strands hanging out of her basket.

I was all too happy to oblige her when she came to me for help after the king demanded that she spin straw into gold. And at the end of every night that I would deliver her gold, I would see her slumped over her spinning wheel, dried tears streaking her cheeks. “My name is Rumpelstiltskin,” I would whisper in her ear. “Tell the king who is helping you. Say my name and we shall both be free.”

But she never said my name.

That last evening, I arrived in her cell, and I was angry. “What is my name?” I demanded.

“I don’t remember,” she replied. “I know you’ve done so much for me…but I need your help again. I’ll give you anything.”

I pretended to think about it, but I knew what I was going to ask for. “Will you give me your first born child?”

She gasped. For a moment, I thought she was going to refuse, but she glanced at the skein of gold I held in my hand. She nodded. “Anything.”

And so I brought her the rest of the gold and whispered my name in her ear at dawn.

The king, pleased with all the riches this stupid woman had provided him, married her. I sent her messages, trying to remind her who I was, trying to get her to say my name, but the harder I tried, the less she remembered me.

Finally, she gave birth to a son. And I watched from afar as she nursed and cooed over her baby. Finally, I thought. She will have motivation.

In the middle of the night, I sneaked into the nursery and plucked the sleeping baby out of his cradle.

“I knew you would come.” She had been sleeping in a chair near the cradle and had woken up as I had entered the room.

“We had a deal.”

“I know…but…he’s my baby. I can’t let him go. I just can’t.”

I sighed and put the baby back down. He tossed and cooed but did not awaken. “Then I have a deal for you. Say my name, my true name, and I will never return.”

“But I don’t know it!” She began to weep in frustration.

“Well, then, I’m sorry. I’ll just have to take–”

“No!” she cried. “Give me three days. Three days, and I’ll figure out your name.”

We stared at each other for a long time. Finally, I turned and limped out of the room. “Three days, your majesty. And then your son is mine.”

You know the rest of the story; she used the vast resources she had at her disposal to find out my name, but the curse affected everyone. It wasn’t until she followed me out into the woods herself and saw me in front of my little cottage, singing a song about my name.

She thought she was the victor; she thought she had saved her baby and defeated the monster — that’s what she told people I was, after everything I did for her! What she never realized was that I was just as much of a winner as she.

Once my veil of anonymity was lifted, I had no desire to go anywhere near that cursed spinning wheel again. I tried starting over again, but the queen was so afraid that I would tell everyone that she hadn’t spun the straw into gold that she spread terrible rumors about me (That bit about me stamping my feet until I fell into hell? Not true. I happened to step on a rotted board and got my leg stuck in the floor for about a second. They don’t keep those palaces in nearly as good shape as you might think). I hoped to put the past behind me, but the rumors kept following me, wherever I went. I almost began to wish for anonymity again. Almost.

All those years of planning paid off, though. I knew exactly how to pay her back for making me infamous. I waited until her son had grown and her husband had died, and then I had the spinning wheel hand-delivered to the queen. She couldn’t resist touching it.

Think about it: in all the times you have heard this story, did you ever learn what her name was?

This week’s Indie Ink challenge came from Jurgen Nation, who gave me this prompt:

Name something (a person, place or thing). Then take it from there.

I challenged Stefan, who answered his prompt in kick-ass fashion here.

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Scrabbled

[Part 1] [Part 2]
“I know you’re keeping something from me.”

Rhonda looked up, startled.

“Admit it,” Rob said. “You can’t hide something like this forever.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rhonda shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She was getting big. Too big to be sitting at the dining room table, too big to look sexy, and far too big to have any patience for games like this.

“You think I wouldn’t figure it out? You have the Q.”

Rhonda’s shoulders relaxed imperceptibly as she gazed down at the Scrabble board between them. She had been so careful not to have any further contact with Charlie since she had found out about the pregnancy. Almost every night she had lain awake, wondering if she had made the right choice. Her heart still raced at the thought of Charlie. The baby kicked in response.

She looked back up at Rob. “How could you possibly know?” She shuffled her tiles around, eyeing the openings on the board.

“The power of deduction.” Rob looked so pleased with himself. “There’s no Q on the board, I don’t have it, and there are only three tiles left.”

“How do you know the Q isn’t one of those three?”

“I don’t. I’m just pretty sure you have it. You have that look in your eyes like you’re going to score big. Besides, I left something wide open for you if you do have a Q.”

“Oh, you’re trying to go easy on me now?”

“Never!”

Despite her discomfort, Rhonda found her lips curling up into a smile. Playing Scrabble with Rob was one of the perks of their newfound intimacy. They still had their differences — sometimes they could really get under each other’s skin — but since she had announced her delicate condition, he went out of his way to spend quality time with her. He would rub her feet, cook meals for her, and even take her shopping. But the best part of it all were these game nights. She had forgotten how smart Rob was, how well-matched they were mentally.

With an over-exaggerated sigh, she pulled out a Q and laid it on the board, and followed it with an A and an I, to make the word “QAID,” attached perpendicularly to the first letter of Rob’s recent addition: DUMB. Their scores were so close that she worried about wasting the 10-point letter on a non-doubling or -tripling space, but as Rob had pointed out, there were only three tiles left. He could easily go out during the next turn, and then she’d be stuck with 10 points to subtract from her score. She’d always hated losing at Scrabble, and losing with a large point margin was unacceptable.

Rob broke out in a grin. “Just as I had suspected.”

“I fell right into your trap, eh?”

“Exactly.”

Rob’s phone rang, and she frowned at him as he pulled it out of his pocket. He gave her an apologetic look, but he still answered, putting it up to his ear and turning away from her.

She reached into the bag and pulled out the last three tiles, placing them on her tile rack. As she rearranged her letters, the baby kicked again. Who knew that a baby would bring the life back into their marriage? She thought things between them had essentially died before she had seduced him that night. Now they were treating each other with respect again. They were even having sex again, on a regular basis, and it was good. Not as good as it was with Charlie, a small voice in her head insisted. She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge that voice. It’s good enough, she told that voice. More than I deserve.

Rob hung up the phone and looked at it quizzically.

“Who was that? And did you tell whoever it was that you were busy losing spectacularly to your wife?”

Rob was silent for a few seconds. “Remember how I told you about that strange guy at the party?”

“The mystery crasher with the fancy mask? My girlfriends still can’t stop talking about him.” She kept a smile on her face, but looked at him warily. From her friends’ description, she could only guess that Charlie had crashed the party. She never saw him that night, however, and since his emails and texts stopped abruptly after the party, she figured his encounter with Rob that night made him realize that she’d never leave her husband. At least that’s what she had hoped.

“That’s the one. He wants to see me.”

Rhonda felt a huge lump growing in her throat. “How did he get your number?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What does he want to talk about?”

“He didn’t say.” He put his phone back in his pocket and looked straight at her. Deliberately.

“Be careful, Rob,” she said slowly, hoping her voice didn’t belie her nervousness. “Now that you’re running for office, everybody wants you to do them a favor.”

He shrugged. “It’s probably guy stuff. He’s a pretty decent dude; I wouldn’t mind helping him out.” As if to change the subject, he pulled out his tiles and laid them on the board, spelling TRUST. It was a triple word score, over which he wasted no time gloating.

She glanced at her tiles and gasped as she saw the letters arranged in the word that would give her the win. Charlie’s call had stolen the levity from the evening, and all she wanted now was to get as far away from Rob as possible. She needed time to think, to figure out a plan, some way to keep Charlie quiet.

Forcing her lips into a big smile, she made a show of slowly placing the rest of her tiles on the board. “I think you’ll find that your best efforts were in vain, babe,” she said just a little too happily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom for the 40th time today.”

Rob watched her leave, his brows furrowing slightly at her behavior. He looked down at the board and frowned even more as he saw Rhonda’s seven-letter winning word: SECRECY.

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge comes from rishaaa, who gave me this prompt:

She’d always hated losing at Scrabble.

I decided to continue the story of Rhonda, Rob, and Charlie. If you haven’t read the previous posts and you’re a little confused, start here and then continue here.

You can find Dee’s response to my prompt here before the end of the week.

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Masked Man Fallacy

[For Part 1 of this story, click here.]

“Wait, who was that masked man?”

Charlie ducked into the hallway and flattened himself against the wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had crashed this party on an impulse and hadn’t really thought out any kind of plan. All he knew was that he had to see Rhonda.

He pulled off his mask to take a look at it. Who knew that such a little thing would attract so much attention? Yes, he’d made his own mask, because he had known that this party was supposed to be some sort of masquerade. But he’d imagined something along the lines of Kubrik’s Eyes Wide Shut, so he had created a papier-mâché Venetian mask with a certain amount of detail, including gold leaf and Swarovski crystals. He thought he would be able to blend in with the crowd.

Nothing was going the way he had expected. Rhonda, ever sensible, knew that most of her guests could not be bothered to come up with their own masks, so she had set up a table outside the ballroom with brightly-colored half-masks, some on strings and others on sticks, but none of them decorated. His elaborate design stuck out like a diamond in a plate of sand; he was instantly surrounded by people who wanted to know more about his mask, his art, and most especially, his name. Frustrated, he had fled the ballroom and now found himself alone in the hallway.

The door next to him opened rather rapidly, and a tall man in a plain white mask, clearly agitated, brushed past him on his way to the veranda. Curious, Charlie followed him outside.

“Do you have a light?” The man already had a cigarette in his mouth, but was shaking his empty lighter despondently.

Charlie pulled out a cardboard matchbook from his jacket pocket and handed it to the man.

“Thanks.” The man tried to strike the a couple of matches, but the striking surface was very worn, and he ended up breaking off the heads each time.

“Here, let me do it,” Charlie offered. He deftly folded the matchbook cover backwards, pulled the match through, and it instantly ignited. Relieved, the man leaned forward to light his cigarette and took a few puffs in silence.

“I owe you, man,” the man said. “My wife has been trying to get me to quit. It’s not as easy as it looks.”

“It doesn’t look easy at all.” Charlie had already pulled out his own cigarette and held it up as a salute before he put it in his mouth. “I’m sure I’ll quit eventually…just not now.”

The man chuckled and held out his hand. “I’m Rob,” he said.

Charlie grasped it warmly. “Charlie.”

“So,” Rob asked as he sat down in a wicker chair, “who did you come here with?”

“Well…” Charlie hesitated to reveal the whole truth to his new friend. “I showed up alone, but I was hoping to go home with someone, if you know what I mean,” he said with a crooked smile.

Rob smiled. “Uh-oh. Who’s the lady? Maybe I can smooth the way for you.”

“I don’t want to tell you her name, in case I don’t get so lucky,” Charlie hedged.

“Oh, come on. Most of the women here love me,” Rob said with a smile.

Charlie sighed. Maybe it was time to tell someone how he felt. “She and I were together for a while. It was great. No, it was more than great: it was smokin’ hot. I’ve never felt that way before. But for no reason, she just stopped calling. She won’t answer my texts or my emails. It’s been six weeks, and I know I should just get the hint and move on, but I can’t get her out of my mind. I…er…heard she was going to be here, and so I came.”

“Maybe she found someone else.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I doubt it, though. What we had was unique. Earth-shattering.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Rob said as he finished off his cigarette, grinding the butt on the concrete of the veranda. “All I can say is hold on to that feeling. My wife and I lost almost all interest in each other for a while and then out of the blue that feeling came back with a vengeance. Now she’s pregnant and I don’t know she feels for me from day to day. All I know is that if I don’t quit smoking before the baby comes, she might kick me out of the house.”

Charlie smiled and shook his head as he took a final drag off his own cigarette.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me her name? I am married to the hostess, after all.”

Charlie stopped breathing. “You’re Rob…Holmes?”

“I figured you knew I was that Rob.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s just…” Charlie fumbled around for words as he pointed to Rob’s mask. I’m in love with your wife.

“Huh,” Rob said as he removed his mask. “I didn’t realize how difficult it was to recognize someone without seeing the top half of their face.”

“Rob? Where are you?” Rhonda’s voice came from the hallway.

Charlie turned around quickly and started putting on his own mask.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rob sounded mildly amused.

He turned back around to face Rob, his mask secure on his face once again. “Do me one favor, man. Don’t tell her I’m here. She’s…kind of close to this girl, and I don’t want her to interfere.”

Rob looked at him quizzically, but then smiled. “No problem. I told you I owed you.” They shook hands, and Rob went back into the house as Charlie slipped into the shadows.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes from xtinabosco, who gave me this prompt:

A masked man

I decided to use it to continue the story of Rhonda, Charlie, and Rob, since I got so much positive feedback. Let me know if you want me to continue the story, or if you’ve had enough of the drama…

You can read Jamelah’s response to my prompt here by the end of the week.

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Love, or Good Intentions

Photo by Loralynn Cross

Pregnant.

Rhonda placed the pee stick gingerly on the sink counter, staring warily at the evidence that had appeared moments ago. She took a deep breath and tried not to cry.

Pregnant.

She lifted her gaze from the sink to the mirror. So this is what a pregnant woman looks like, she thought. She leaned in and peered more closely, trying to find something different, that glow that people keep talking about. She didn’t really see anything particularly different.

She took off her robe and stared down at her belly. She definitely wasn’t showing yet, that’s for sure. But then again, it’s not like she had the tight, svelte figure she’d had in college anymore.

Sighing, she turned on the shower faucet and grimaced as the frigid water hit her arm. It was January, and she knew it would take several minutes for the hot water to make its way up three floors into the bathroom. She shut the shower door and let the water run while she ran a comb through her hair.

Funny, she’d always wanted children. When Rob had proposed to her back in college, he had told her that he’d wanted kids, too. “As many as we can make, babe,” he’d said as they lay in his dorm room, naked and sweaty and tangled.

God, he was so desirable then. And she was so young.

Steam rose from the shower and began to fog the mirror. Rhonda stepped into the shower and adjusted the temperature as the warm water pummeled the top of her head. She stood there for a minute, doing nothing but letting the water run down her face in rivulets, washing away the tears that she could no longer hold back.

Pregnant.

She lathered up her bath sponge and started scrubbing her body, covering her neck, her breasts, her belly, and every other part of her where hands and mouth had been. She didn’t want to wash him away. She traced the path that his mouth had taken, feeling that familiar heat building up deep in her core. She would need that heat to sustain her now.

More tears came now, this time in frustration. This wasn’t supposed to happen, she thought. I thought I couldn’t have kids. I thought I was safe.

She and Rob had come to the realization several years ago that they had only married to appease their parents. They thought they had loved each other; turns out they’d just had good intentions. Divorce, however, was out of the question. Rob was going to run for a Senate seat, and Rhonda’s position as a development director for a big charity was contingent on her social standing. No, it was better in the long run, they decided, to stay together.

And then she’d met Charlie. Beautiful, sweet, young Charlie, with long blonde hair and washboard abs. He was a playboy — oh, she was well aware of that fact! — but he made her feel like she was the only woman in the world for him. In public, they acted cool and casual; in private, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

She picked up her razor and began to shave her legs. In long, deliberate strokes, she pulled the blade up her calf, careful to reach the more difficult curves behind her knee.

Maybe this is good, she thought. Maybe this is exactly what I need to get away from Rob, from my life, from everything. It could be a fresh start.

But Charlie? To say he was a free spirit was putting it lightly. A self-proclaimed starving artist, Charlie never held down a job for longer than six months. Sometimes his only meal for the day would be a $5 burrito from the Mexican place down the street; he preferred to spend his money in bars every night. Not exactly the ideal father figure.

She flinched as her razor nicked her thigh. Blood welled up and was quickly diluted by the water. Shaking her head, she rinsed the razor and put it away.

What would Rob say? What would he do?

Oh God, what would he do?

She spent one more minute in the warm shower, rinsing all proof of Charlie’s touch and her grief down the drain.

Well, not ALL proof. She touched her belly.

Turning the faucet off, she stepped out of the shower and rubbed herself briskly with a towel. Even though the steam had warmed the bathroom, it was still cold in the house, and the water on her body was making her shiver.

Or maybe she was shivering because she knew what she had to do.

Slowly, deliberately, she rubbed her naked body with moisturizer, that scented stuff that Rob liked so much. She dabbed a couple of drops of perfume behind her ears for good measure. The smell made her gag.

It must be the hormones, she told herself.

She picked up the pregnancy test and looked at it one more time before throwing it into the trash. She closed up the trash bag and set it aside for the housekeeper to throw out later. She knew Rob wouldn’t be rooting around in the trash, not if he didn’t suspect anything.

Donning her robe, she stepped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He was in bed, she knew, but probably not asleep.

She had to do it now. While she still had the courage.

“Hey, babe.”

Rob looked up from the book he was reading. They hadn’t called each other that since college.

“I…um…” she opened her robe and let it slide off her body slowly.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he did not protest as Rhonda crawled on top of him and began to undress him.

[Click here to continue to Part 2]

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came to me from the fabulous Jason Hughes, who gave me this prompt:

Love is more than good intentions.

You can find Katri’s answer to my prompt here before the end of the week.

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Powerless

Photo by KK Lo

Day 1
The President announced yesterday that due to the mounting energy crisis, we would all have to start rationing electricity. I think the idea was that they would wean us off electricity, but something must have gone terribly wrong. Today, when we woke up, there was no electric current running anywhere. And I do mean anywhere: not in our township, county, or even, as far as I understand it, the larger cities.

That’s OK; I’m sure they’ll get things up and running soon. I could use a vacation from electricity anyway. I just have to make sure I eat all the stuff that’s in the fridge before it goes bad.

Day 2

We realized yesterday that we can’t really use our cell phones to talk to anyone since none of the cell towers are working. That certainly put a damper on our communications. And since there were no electric currents running through any of our wires, even the land lines weren’t working. We have been relying on our neighbor for news; he has been driving around the township, checking up on people.

The other annoying thing is that our stove is electric. I didn’t think about how much of a problem it would be until I tried to cook up all the perishables. We just ate everything cold. It was pretty gross.

Apparently the hospital is working on backup generators, but I’m not sure how long that’s going to last. I’m just happy nobody has started looting.

Day 3

My husband decided to look at the gas line for a possible source for heating food. We do have an alternate stove in our living room: it’s a kitchy old-timey wood-burning stove that’s been modified to run on gas, just like our fireplace. Apparently, the gas still works, so now I’m cooking with gas. Thank goodness for hot meals!

The police came around today. They wanted to remind us to lock our doors and not go outside at night. Apparently there has been some looting a couple of towns over. I’m not too worried; our neighborhood is pretty safe.

Day 7

We keep hearing rumors of looting going on in the neighboring towns. One thing I do have to say has been a great thing about this electricity outage is that we have started talking to our neighbors. I mean, until now I haven’t known my neighbors’ names, their personalities, or what they do! I think I like most of them. I’m still not crazy about the rat dog across the street.

The postman came by today with a newsletter from the White House. Apparently this is how they are getting out “essential” information these days. I read it, but it’s just a lot of nonsense, really, about how we shouldn’t panic and that everything will be back to normal soon. I’m not sure how much I believe it.

Day 8

It was a sleepless night last night. It was really hot, and of course the air conditioner doesn’t work. We can’t even use the ceiling fans. All the windows were open and the covers were off, but it didn’t make a difference. I was also beginning to worry about that newsletter we got from the government. Is there a reason we should panic?

Day 9

We decided to try to go to the bank yesterday. They turned us away. The looters had gotten there before us, and all the money was gone.

I also realized that our pantry was starting to get a little empty. Even though it’s the beginning of summer, I think there’s plenty of time and opportunity to start growing things. I went through my old seed packets to see what I should start with.

Day 14

My husband has been busy. Since we have no money on hand, we’re trying to figure out ways for us to either barter services or make cash on our own. The trouble is, everyone else is in the same boat. The kids across the street have started making muffins to sell every morning, and the smells that come out of that house are spectacular.

My husband, on the other hand, has been using his knowledge of electronic circuitry to good use. “We may not have access to the grid anymore,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean the laws of physics have suddenly disappeared.” He has now modified our exercise bike so that it will power one of his pinball games.

Day 16

Yesterday, the kids across the street came over to try out our new self-propelled pinball games. One of the kids got on the bike to power it, while the other one played the game, and they took turns. They loved it, and they absolutely wanted more.

We charged them $2 or 2 muffins to play for one hour.

My husband has four working pinball machines and two that need some repair, but I think the idea is that we may be able to create a little arcade here in the house, just to make some money.

Day 30

We got a letter from some friends at the Renaissance Faire today. Letters have become so precious nowadays; it’s our only connection with the outside world. The postman is the most popular man in town, especially since he’s the only guy left allowed to have gas in his car. (Don’t tell anyone, but we siphoned the gas from our cars a while ago and we’re keeping it in jugs in the garage. You never know when you might need it).

Anyway, our friends have invited us to come live with them on the fairgrounds. They want to form a community of people who all know and trust each other. Apparently there have been many incidents of rape and looting in Philadelphia, and many of our friends have already begun making the pilgrimage out to Lancaster County, where the Amish have lived without electricity for centuries.

Day 45

Things certainly have changed. Our arcade is the hit of the neighborhood, but our notoriety has also gotten us some unwanted attention from thieves. My husband has been talking about fortifying the house, whatever that means.

I harvested quite a few vegetables this week, so we’ll have more bartering leverage, at least for a while. I also think it’s time to start pickling and canning the extra food. Winter is going to be really difficult.

Day 50

Photo by Benny Hill

Last night, we got hit. The looters took everything. We were sleeping upstairs when they broke in the windows and took as much as they could carry: food and anything wooden or metal, which included many of the components of the pinball setup. We knew they were there; we awoke while they were still in the house. But neither of us had a firearm and we knew that these guys were packing. We stayed in the bedroom, holding each other.

There’s almost nothing left. We talked it over this morning, and we decided that it was time for us to move on. Our gas, hidden in jugs in the garage, is still here, but every last scrap of food is gone. I still have two spinning wheels, and although both of them are wooden, the looters seem to have overlooked them in their zeal to pick apart the pinball machines.

We have decided it’s time to take our friends up on their offer and make the long trip to the Renaissance Faire. I know they have livestock there; that will be helpful. I can definitely spin wool and knit what I spin. That’ll be useful out there too.

We’re going to leave tonight, so I need to harvest the rest of the plants in the garden, whether or not they are ripe, because we don’t know when our next meal might be.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Dafeenah, who gave me this prompt:

You wake up and the entire electrical system has collapsed beyond repair. Describe how the world changes. How it changes you and how you adjust in the new society with no electricity.

I challenged Seeking Elevation, who will answer it here before the end of the week.

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Creation


When Gaia was just a child, she and her siblings loved to dance around their father, chasing each other in wider and wider circles. She would throw stardust in her father’s face and giggle as he feigned anger, puffed up his cheeks, and incinerated the dust with one breath.

Sol told his children that he loved them all equally, but Gaia knew that she and her father shared a special bond. “Gaia,” he would whisper in her ear, “You are exceptional. I know you are destined for great things.”

As she and her siblings grew older, they ventured farther and farther away from the safety of her father’s arms. Mercury, the baby of the family, still stayed close to home, but Neptune, who had always been erratic and emotional, drifted the farthest, preferring the cold of nothingness to the warmth and companionship of his family.

And though Gaia’s siblings were far from each other, they would wink and wave to her as they danced through space; she would wink back to them, singing a song of love and joy across the void.

Sometimes, though, as she danced across the vast blackness of space, she found herself all alone. She cried tears of regret that she had grown older and wandered away from the bosom of her family. Those tears ran down her cheeks and gathered themselves between her bosoms, falling into the cracks and crevices of her body, and for the first time, Gaia saw the reflection of her father in the pools of water.

She called out, “Father, I miss you!”

Sol burned brightly in the darkness, but said nothing.

“Father,” she called again, “why are you so far away?”

Again, Sol was silent.

Finally, Gaia cried out in frustration, “Why must I be so alone?”

Sol sighed. “Oh, Gaia,” he whispered, too quietly for her to hear, “you are not alone.” And although he knew it would probably make his other children jealous, he blew a warm kiss directly towards her.

A few minutes later, the kiss made its way to her cheek. She touched her cheek and suddenly knew what she needed to do. She put her arms around herself and recalled all the love she had for her family. Her strong heart beat faster and faster, and electricity began to flow through and around her hands.

Lightning flashed between her hands in the sky and the pools of water on her body.

And then…something HAPPENED.

Gaia felt it deep down inside. She felt different. She was more than just a daughter of Sol. She had created something.

She stared at her body. Nothing really seemed that different. The salty tear-water was rocking back and forth as she danced through space. But then, she saw something gleaming: something new, something very, very small, way down in the depths. “I think…I think it’s moving!” she said in horrified fascination.

And it was. It was life.

A life.

Alive.

Not only was it moving, but it had begun to multiply. And there became more of them, and they kept changing form and shape, becoming increasingly diverse in their living, eating, and mating habits. Some of them swam around in the oceans, but others crawled out of the oceans and began to live and move on her body proper. Some didn’t move around at all, but dug their feet deep into her body and stretched their arms up-up-up towards her father.

And so she continued her dance of joy across the void, ever circling her father, full in the knowledge that no matter how far away she was from her family, she would never, ever be alone.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Wendryn, who gave me this prompt:

Write whatever you like, but include this line: “I think…I think it’s moving!” she said in horrified fascination.

My prompt went out to Kerri, who did a fantastic job answering it here.

Posted on

Yin/Yang

Artwork by Pawat Kongkoonchat

You think you know me, but you really don’t.

My name is Ed Yin. I was born right here, in Oklahoma City. I was raised by strict parents who expected a lot from me. I was one of the only Asian kids in my class, and I got ridiculed for the way I looked all through grade school. It was a tough way to grow up, but it made me a better person, a stronger person. And before you ask: no, I don’t speak Chinese. I’m an American. I speak English.

The reason I’m here, in front of this abortion clinic—this house of death—is to tell all of you that I will fight with every fiber of my being any law that allows women to murder their unborn children. I see those folks on the other side of the street waving their “pro-choice” signs, and I say to you: this is not a question of choice. If I choose to do so, I could kill any one of you. I’m a trained EMT. I have plenty of empty syringes in my truck. But I don’t do it, because it would be morally wrong, and nobody, not even those testosterone-riddled she-male freaks over there, would argue with me.

Do you hear them now? They are chanting about rape and incest. Well, I’ll tell you what: there are lots of things that we all have to do, things we have to hide about ourselves, just so that we can peacefully coexist in this society. If a girl was raped by her father, that is certainly a tragedy, no question. But it’s not the fault of that poor baby. That girl can get through it. I think we coddle our citizens too much these days. All of a sudden, everyone has neuroses, and more often than not, these “conditions” are just hypochondriac fantasies created by psychologists to keep themselves in business. We never had problems like this 60 years ago. Back then, if a tragedy like that happened to a girl, she would get through it. She would get stronger. And she would bear that child to term and give it to a loving family if she didn’t want to raise it herself.

You want to talk about ridiculous neuroses that these people are trying to legitimize? Look at homosexuality. I mean, sure, every guy fantasizes about having sex with other men. You just bury that urge, though, way down deep, because it’s not natural. Sex is for procreation, and if you are going to do it, you should do it with someone of the opposite sex, in order to create life. Not to MURDER BABIES LIKE THAT BITCH WALKING TO THE CLINIC RIGHT NOW!

Sorry, where was I?

Ah. I see you guys are ready for me to step down and let someone else speak. Okay. Before I go, I just want to say one more thing.

You may look at me and see a Chinese-American guy in a suit and assume I’m some sort of banker or accountant. I’m not. Here I am at this pro-life rally, so you might assume I came here with my church group. I don’t even have a church. I just know there is a higher power, and that He put me on this earth to save lives. I do that every day at my job, and I’m trying to do the same with those babies right here, right now.

And you may look at those women across the road and think they don’t care about babies at all, and all they care about is their “rights” as women. But maybe they aren’t what they seem, either. Maybe some of them have come to be educated about the abominable acts that this clinic commits. I came here to reach those people. I came here to save lives.

You may think you know me, but you really don’t.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Peter, who wrote:

Write something that your exact opposite would write.

I had so much fun with this challenge, because I had to figure out what the exact opposite of me was! I mean, I have so many traits that don’t have exact opposites (what, exactly is the opposite of an opera singer?). I ended up putting together a grid (see below) that would help me figure out what kind of character my exact opposite would be.

Once I had in mind this guy’s likes and dislikes, and the things that made him tick, I had to let it simmer in the back of my mind overnight. And, boy, did I have some crazy dreams last night! But once my mind had really developed Ed’s character (and his name! I did actually dream his name), I was able to write the piece itself pretty quickly.

Trait ME MY SHADOW
Gender Female Male
Ethnicity 3/4 Caucasian; 1/4 Asian 3/4 Asian; 1/4 Caucasian
Marital Status Married Divorced
Sexual Orientation Heterosexual Homosexual
Religion Agnostic (with a side of Wiccan) Gnostic (with a side of Mormon)
Politics Liberal Democrat Conservative Republican
Sports Zzzz… Gets scores of every game automatically via text message
Entertainment Geeky/nerdy stuff like Star Wars, Princess Bride, Dr. Who, and anything related to Joss Whedon Bill O’Reilly, anything on Fox News, anything written by John Grisham
Myers-Briggs Personality Type INFJ ESTP
Profession freelance opera singer full-time EMT

My challenge went out to Catherine, who will answer it by the end of the week here.

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Pick-Up Artist

“Pardon me, miss?”

“Yes?”

“Your legs…”

“What about my legs?”

“Well, I was just thinking they must be tired.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because they’ve been running through my mind all night long.”

“Are you kidding? Did you really just say that?”

“What?”

“Did you actually just try to pick me up with that cheesy line?”

“Is there something wrong with trying to make conversation with a beautiful woman?”

“No…I guess not, but—”

“I mean, I’ve got to say something to break the ice, don’t I?”

“But did you have to say that?”

“What’s wrong with what I said?”

“Well…it’s just not exactly appropriate.”

“Why not?”

“Look around you. We’re not in a bar.”

“Oh, so I have to be in a bar in order to talk to you?”

“No, but—”

Photo by Felix Davis

“I don’t get it. Why do you make it so hard for us?”

“Me?”

“You women. All of you. If a man approaches a woman at a bar, he looks like a jerk. If he tries to make conversation on line at a coffee shop, he looks like a creep. If he hangs back and waits for her to make the first move, he looks like a wuss. What am I supposed to do?”

“I still don’t think—”

“I’m just tired of trying to put myself out there and continually getting shot down by uppity cheerleader bimbos who think they’re better than me.”

“Are you calling me a bimbo?”

“No, no, not you! I’m sorry. I know I’ve messed this whole thing up royally by now. Maybe I just don’t have anything to lose anymore.”

“It’s okay. I’m actually a little flattered, to be honest. I just…well, I think you might need to do a little reconnaissance first.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, first of all, you might want to think of saying something a little more appropriate to your location.”

“I already told you, I really don’t think I have to only go to bars to pick up women.”

“No, no…it’s just…well, take a look around you. Where are we?”

“A hospital.”

“That’s right. Not exactly the most conducive place to romance.”

“I thought this would for sure be a place to find desperate…er…women who might need a little cheering up.”

“Well…um, okay. But there is one more thing you missed before you came over to speak to me.”

“What’s that?”

“Think about it. You mentioned my legs?”

“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

“I’m in a wheelchair.”

“So?”

“Take a closer look. I don’t have legs.”

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from The Onion, who gave me this prompt:

write about whatever you like, ONLY using dialogue.

My challenge went out to Andrea, who will answer it by the end of the week here.