Cows

 

 This picture prompt is in honor of my good friend and running buddy.  We run past a dairy farm almost every Saturday and the cows stare at us.  

Enjoy!

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My response:

"Maggie, go grab the lead rope, will you?"

I rolled my eyes at my dad and backed away from the heifer.  This was not how I'd planned on spending the last few days before school started.  I had school clothes to buy, friends to call, and I wanted to hit the water park before it closed for the summer.  I let my mind wander, listing the myriad of things I'd rather be doing than hanging out at the county fair.

Squish.

I knew immediately what had happened.  My nerves trembled, and I gagged.  Slowly, my eyes traced their way down my designer jeans to the turquoise cowboy boots I had on.  Yep.  Manure.  Someone must have passed by our stall on their way to the auction while I was in there.  My stomach rolled.

"Maggie, now!  Do you want to be late?"

"No!" I don't want to be here at all, I wanted to say, but we'd been down that argument before.  If I hadn't wanted to raise a cow, I didn't have to.  Mom and Dad only bought her for me when I'd begged.  But that was back in the spring, when Tammy Ryland was still here, and she was getting a cow.  All she ever talked about was how much money she made each year at auction.  I couldn't let her show me up, and we did have that small pasture to the side of our property that we never used.  Back then, it seemed like such a good idea.  Back then, I didn't have boots covered in muck.  And now that Tammy's family had moved, I didn't even have Tammy to blame it on anymore.

I stepped back into the hay, swiping my heel against the scratchy stuff, but not having much luck in un-mucking my boot.

"Oh.  Ew."

I looked up at the voice and saw something I never cared to see again.  The rear end of a steer.  Probably the reason my boot was covered in filth.  Then my eyes landed on the boy standing at his head.  Compared to the steer, he was easy to miss, but only because the steer filled the corridor.  The boy could walk down any street in New York, London, or Paris and turn heads.  The evidence of that was how good he looked in his white, button-up shirt and blue jeans - the required dress code that made the rest of us look like country freaks.  He brushed his hair back from his face, his eyes smiling.

"Sorry about that.  Traffic jam."  He motioned to the line of steers in front of him, swinging their tails at flies and stomping in the heat of the stable.

I shrugged, letting my lips curl into a slight smile and hoping my eyes would sparkle as I met his gaze.  "Yeah, well, as long as it doesn't happen again."

He blushed and my heart skipped a beat.  He must have realized I was flirting.  I waited.  His turn.

His chest rose and fell, then he narrowed his eyes at me winked.  "I don't think I can promise that.  After all, it'd be worth it just to see you again."

Now it was my turn.  I felt the warmth of the blood rushing to my cheeks.  The seconds ticking by felt like decades as I tried to think of a reply.  He watched me intently.  "Well, if that's all you want, maybe we can do it without the cows.  Not as stinky."

He laughed.  "I sure hope not!"

"I've never seen you before.  Where do you go to school?"  I kept one ear to my dad - heaven forbid he should come out of the stall now - and prayed the traffic jam would keep the boy here a few more minutes.

"I was at Kenyon Junior, but I'll be a freshman at Oakmount High this fall.  You?"

"Taylor Junior, but I registered at Oakmount last Monday."

"Maggie?!"  My dad was getting impatient.  Lucky for me, the steers were moving forward.  Just one last thing.

"What's your name?"

"David.  David McMillan."  He cast an anxious glance at the line in front of him, then back at me.  "Maggie?"

"Maggie Aldridge."  I smiled, and gave a little wave as his steer led him off down the way.

Maybe, just maybe, I could forgive Tammy for what she'd gotten me into.

Mythical Creatures

I finally got ASCENDANT, by Diana Peterfreund, from the library!  I've just started it, but I loved the first one, and I'm so excited to have it in my hands.  Not only are the books great, but I love the looks I get when I tell people they're about bloodthirsty unicorns.  Haha!

In honor of Ms. Peterfreund, the prompt for this weeks is: Mythical creatures.

Put a spin on it (i.e. sparkly vampires, killer unicorns, etc.) or stick to the normal themes, whatever you like.  :-)

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My response:

Her massive heart pounded, the roaring of blood flooding her ears and drowning out the sounds of the chaos below.  Her taloned feet brushed the treetops as her wings pummeled the air, pushing her scaly body forward like a raptor in a downward dive.  She opened her mouth and hurled a jet of flame at the trees, but her aim was off, and the leaves only curled in on themselves and smouldered instead of catching.  She barely noticed.  There was room in her mind for only one thought: would she get there in time?

The air was heavy with the scent of little men and running horses.  Never before had they dared approach her fortress home, not since she'd driven them out, decades ago.  The shining, marble city on the hill still gleamed in the sunset, the prize she'd won even as a youngling, fresh out of her egg.  Vines and shrubs encroached on the wide road leading up to it, but it was well built, and the men came back all too easily.

One generation of men was not too long for a dragon to wait out, and egg laying was a serious business.  Eggs were helpless.  They had no talons, no tongues of flame to protect themselves.  She pushed herself onward, thinking only of her eggs.  When she saw the doors of the palace, broken open and hanging loose from the hinges, all thought left her.  Only panic remained.

Her flames would not hurt her eggs, and she knew it.  She filled the palace with them.  Horses screamed.  Men yelled.  She heard none of it.  Diving through a crumbling cupola, she landed among ash and cinder, roaring out her punishment upon the men who dared invade what she had rightfully stolen.

Then all was silent.

She coughed, ash-darkened spittle dripping from her jaws to sizzle on the stone.  Egg shells littered the floor, scattered among the skeletons of men and their mounts.  She looked to her nest.  The carnage continued.  Trembling, she reached her long neck out, heart aching at what she knew she would find, but driven, nonetheless, to see for herself.

Then she heard it.  Faint, and buried.  A scratching, or a thumping.  It was muffled.  It didn't come from the nest.  Then men had been thorough.  She twisted around, searching.  There.  A leather bag, strung across the remains of a horse, blackened and cracked, but still whole.  One careful nudge from her claw snapped what was left of it, and one purple egg emerged.

She lifted her head and cried, then snapped her head back down and carefully picked the egg up in her jaws.  They had won the night, but she had won the day, and if not tomorrow, surely in the next few days, there would not be one lone dragon on the mountain, but two.

Courage

I think I've mentioned a few of my WIPs (Work-in-Progress) here before.  I was just working on revising NYMPHKISSED, my YA Fantasy.  It's full of teenage angst and high school awkwardness, but one of my favorite scenes is when my MC steps up and takes on the star polo player of the school.  She tears him to bits and he sulks away.  It's a beautiful moment of triumph, even if the thing that gave her the courage to do it turns out to be a lie.

The prompt for this week:  Courage.

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My response:

The superfine fabric of my prison jumpsuit was supposed to protect me from all extremes of weather.  I shivered anyway.  The courtroom, all chrome and mirrors, was the most daunting place I'd ever been.  Last time I was here, they sentenced me to six months in the brig.

I turned and saw another waif.  She had the same grey jumpsuit, two sizes too big, the same greasy hair, the same darting, flickering gaze.  Bile rose in my throat, and we both dropped our heads.  Not another girl.  Just me, and these stupid mirrors.

The bailiff yanked at my arm, pulling me forward.  From his steel podium, the judge looked down at me.  He was as colorless as the room he reigned, all grey hairs and wan skin, eyes so light they had to be unnatural.  I felt his gaze fall on me, and I shrugged my shoulders, as if I could shake it off.

"Vannaree, no known surname, vagrant of Sharpstead Station," I felt as if a weight lifted from my shoulders as he turned his gaze to the file in front of him.  "You were arrested ..."  His voice droned like the buzzing of the ventilation system, outlining my crime, stealing food, and my sentence.  "You are at the end of your six months' sentence, and are here to be released.  However, as a minor, there is the matter of who we release you to."

"Your honor?"  A voice squeaked from the back of the courtroom.  My mouth went dry.  Too dangerous.  It was much too dangerous for him to be here!  I craned my head around to see.

Derzel stood in the rear of the room, where spectators were allowed to sit.  He looked like his wanted poster come to life.  Couldn't he at least have tried to hide who he was, if he had to come?!  His street cred was worth as much as rat droppings in this room.

"Your honor, my name's Derzel Fletcher, and Vannaree's my sis.  I didn't know she'd got taken here till too late to claim her last time.  Ima take her home, now." 

The judge peered at the folder in front of him.  "You are Derzel Fletcher?  Did I hear that right?"

I balled my fists and willed my legs to stay still.  They wanted to drop the bailiff and vault over the bar to where Derzel was.  Was he so dumb as to use his real name?  As if these civilized types knew any of us street rats from another.

"Yessa."  Derzel's voice faltered.  The three steel doors on the lower level slammed shut, pairs of constables blocking the exits.

"Derzel Fletcher, you are under arrest ..." 

Frazzled

A few days ago, I had a brilliant idea for a prompt.  I almost got so far as to write it in advance and schedule it to post ... almost.  I didn't get that far. 

Then, today was one of those days where you fly from one activity to the next, and my rear end has only just met the surface of a chair for the first time.  It's been a long day, friends, and I'm feeling a little ... frazzled.  All my good ideas have been zapped out of my head.

So our prompt for this week: Frazzled.  (... and I'll go ahead and skew it towards memoir.  When have you been frazzled?)

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My response:

I pulled the door closed behind me and felt a fifty pound bag of bricks drop from my shoulders.  Finally.  In. Bed.  Wow.  I pull my head towards my right shoulder, and my neck pops.  Just as relief hits, the neck muscle on the right side spasms.  I flop my head over to the left side and reach my left arm across my chest, trying to work out the kink in the muscle.  Ouch!  It's hard as rocks.  I check the muscle on the other side as comparison.  It's not nearly as hard.  Now I feel justified. 

I pad down the hallway towards the kitchen.  I need to relax.  I need to sit for two minutes without small voices echoing in my ears and small hands pulling on my arms ... legs ... knees ... ears. 

I need ice cream.

I take my ice cream into the living room and curl up in a fetal position on the couch.  The ice cream fits just so between my knees, and I can prop my book up like this.  Perfect.  Deep breath in.  Deep breath out. 

Now let's see how long it lasts.